He scoffed at her supposed secret-keeping. Telling him was hardly the same as gossiping: and every time they spoke nowadays the awkwardness seemed to ebb so far away that they felt much like old friends, and Endymion forgot that Miss Thistle Potts really owed him nothing at all. Really, they ought to have been strangers by now – but he was having too much fun with her, skulking behind this suspect flower arrangement, to relinquish her or himself back up to the party.
“Is that all you have?” Endymion said, with a pout of not-entirely-mock-disappointment. “I was taking mental notes.” If they had been friends, he might have ribbed her about her lack of fashionable languages (she probably had table arrangements rather well in hand), but that seemed like – making unnecessary assumptions, and he didn’t want to cause offence.
“Is that all you have?” Endymion said, with a pout of not-entirely-mock-disappointment. “I was taking mental notes.” If they had been friends, he might have ribbed her about her lack of fashionable languages (she probably had table arrangements rather well in hand), but that seemed like – making unnecessary assumptions, and he didn’t want to cause offence.
