Please don’t be sorry, she said, and the quirk of her smile convinced him of her words, and some of the tension left his chest in a breath he hadn’t realised was trapped until then. Whatever he felt about it now, if Elsie had woken up and thought it had been a mistake (even if she had said nothing, it was the sort of thing he would’ve seen in her eyes, he was sure of it)... if she had regretted it, Tyb wasn’t sure what he would have done. He’d have gone and ruined it all, and he didn't think there would be any repairing it.
But she didn’t regret it, and she seemed ready for reality as it crashed in on them, collecting her clothes and redressing the situation. He thought he probably ought to get up and help her, but she seemed to be doing well enough without him, and so all he could do was watch her in a daze. I’ll be fine, don’t worry.
He had never thought of Elsie as a particularly good liar, but the more he reasoned about it, the more he figured that she had enough experience of it. Barring Lucinda, obviously, her family had yet to find out anything about him, so there was no pretending she couldn’t take evasive action, smooth over truths. She had lied to him in the library last year and Tyb had trusted what she said, hadn’t he? (Although perhaps that was his flaw and not a mark of her duplicitous finesse.) And if her suitor probed further into the rejection she gave him, she would have to lie again, perhaps. If he asked if there was someone else.
But she had an honest face. She seemed like the sort of person one could trust.
And most of what she said to her suitor, Tybalt supposed, would only have to be the truth.
“Okay. I hope so,” he murmured, leaning over to catch her hand in case she disapparated away again too soon. Don’t worry, she had said, but he couldn’t help it. He’d thought last night had done away with his worry, but there it was again, creeping back in, as insidious as ever. New complications, new worries. When would things ever be simpler?
If anyone found out about what had happened here, they really would be done for.
“And you’ll write, then -” Tyb pressed, “to tell me how it goes? With that and with - him,” he added awkwardly, a reminder of why she’d come last night in the first place. He wasn’t sure whether to grimace about it or let out a helpless sort of laugh: it was hard to make sense of any of it. “Who knows when I’ll see you next.”
But she didn’t regret it, and she seemed ready for reality as it crashed in on them, collecting her clothes and redressing the situation. He thought he probably ought to get up and help her, but she seemed to be doing well enough without him, and so all he could do was watch her in a daze. I’ll be fine, don’t worry.
He had never thought of Elsie as a particularly good liar, but the more he reasoned about it, the more he figured that she had enough experience of it. Barring Lucinda, obviously, her family had yet to find out anything about him, so there was no pretending she couldn’t take evasive action, smooth over truths. She had lied to him in the library last year and Tyb had trusted what she said, hadn’t he? (Although perhaps that was his flaw and not a mark of her duplicitous finesse.) And if her suitor probed further into the rejection she gave him, she would have to lie again, perhaps. If he asked if there was someone else.
But she had an honest face. She seemed like the sort of person one could trust.
And most of what she said to her suitor, Tybalt supposed, would only have to be the truth.
“Okay. I hope so,” he murmured, leaning over to catch her hand in case she disapparated away again too soon. Don’t worry, she had said, but he couldn’t help it. He’d thought last night had done away with his worry, but there it was again, creeping back in, as insidious as ever. New complications, new worries. When would things ever be simpler?
If anyone found out about what had happened here, they really would be done for.
“And you’ll write, then -” Tyb pressed, “to tell me how it goes? With that and with - him,” he added awkwardly, a reminder of why she’d come last night in the first place. He wasn’t sure whether to grimace about it or let out a helpless sort of laugh: it was hard to make sense of any of it. “Who knows when I’ll see you next.”
