“Orchids, of course,” Trystan hummed, good-humouredly. Mrs. Davenport might look like a hitwitch hovering over her daughter’s shoulder, but that was simple enough to block out when Marigold was such a free fount of interesting details. Trystan didn’t know exactly what he was plumbing for here, or what he was going to do with this knowledge... no, that was a lie, he knew exactly what he was going to do (send her orchids) – but he hadn’t quite decided why.
He didn’t want anything from her, not particularly – the metamorphmagus talent and her odd accent might have piqued his curiosity the first time, but they alone were not cause enough to pursue such an acquaintance with her. He wasn’t trying to sleep with her – well, he swore he wasn’t trying to sleep with anyone, beyond his marriage bed (to varying success) – but it was less about that result and more about the pursuing, maybe. He wanted to charm her – to weather that brick wall of an exterior, to see her soften. If he hadn’t been here, and it had just been her daughter and her, would she have been more relaxed? Would she have been cheerful and carefree and content? Something in Trystan doubted it.
People did not become as on edge as she was for no reason. That harsh protectiveness had come from somewhere.
Marigold was – naturally – easier to entertain. Trystan had always liked his own children at this age, when they had no filter and no concern for anything but adventure and fun – he did break into laughter at that cat excuse. “Perhaps your mama will get you a puppy or a kitten,” Trystan remarked lazily, trying to decide whether Mrs. Davenport was lying about her getaway excuse too. “And – before you go – when’s your birthday, Marigold?”
(He would send something for her too.)
He didn’t want anything from her, not particularly – the metamorphmagus talent and her odd accent might have piqued his curiosity the first time, but they alone were not cause enough to pursue such an acquaintance with her. He wasn’t trying to sleep with her – well, he swore he wasn’t trying to sleep with anyone, beyond his marriage bed (to varying success) – but it was less about that result and more about the pursuing, maybe. He wanted to charm her – to weather that brick wall of an exterior, to see her soften. If he hadn’t been here, and it had just been her daughter and her, would she have been more relaxed? Would she have been cheerful and carefree and content? Something in Trystan doubted it.
People did not become as on edge as she was for no reason. That harsh protectiveness had come from somewhere.
Marigold was – naturally – easier to entertain. Trystan had always liked his own children at this age, when they had no filter and no concern for anything but adventure and fun – he did break into laughter at that cat excuse. “Perhaps your mama will get you a puppy or a kitten,” Trystan remarked lazily, trying to decide whether Mrs. Davenport was lying about her getaway excuse too. “And – before you go – when’s your birthday, Marigold?”
(He would send something for her too.)
