Gideon bit his lower lip through his smile while she read him the letter. He was already thinking what to write back to her, although he wouldn't be able to send the sort of letter he wanted if he was still using Miss Chevalier as an intermediary. Cartoonish little doodles at the ends of letters were one of his trademarks when writing to her, but he could hardly ask the healer to imitate something so silly. Could you draw a picture of me with no arms and two dog paws instead? Not to mention that she might not think it was quite as funny as he might to make light of the situation. Honestly, though, it would have fit so well. He could have told Billie that was the reason Miss Chevalier was writing his letters for him, because he'd lost both hands and was still learning how to hold a quill in his new dog paws.
Then she finished the letter and said your daughter. For half a second it didn't even really sink in, but by the time she'd finished detailing what was in her own letter, Gideon's mirth had faded. Should he correct her? He had to, he thought, because it wasn't the sort of slip that someone would let go uncorrected. Lying to her, however, didn't seem right either. He was essentially lying about Billie all the time, to everyone he met, but mostly they were lies of omission. He didn't make a habit of actively denying his connection to Billie, and the idea of doing so didn't sit right in his stomach.
She'd moved on. He supposed he could just say nothing. It would hurt nothing to let it go; he'd never met Miss Chevalier before this and would likely not see her after his sight was restored, so it was unlikely to cause any issues down the line. Since he didn't know how long his treatment here was going to take, however, it might create some awkward situations in the meantime. He should say something — but what? He didn't even know if Miss Chevalier's assumption had been only an assumption. Had there been something in Billie's letters, perhaps, that indicated more than she'd let on? True, Billie had never signed her letters with your daughter or anything before, but if she'd decided to start now he didn't want to put his foot in his mouth trying to backtrack.
"Of course," he said, in response to her suggestion. Then, after wrestling with it a second longer, he added, "Miss — about Billie — I don't want you to get the wrong idea."
More like he didn't want her to get the right idea.
Then she finished the letter and said your daughter. For half a second it didn't even really sink in, but by the time she'd finished detailing what was in her own letter, Gideon's mirth had faded. Should he correct her? He had to, he thought, because it wasn't the sort of slip that someone would let go uncorrected. Lying to her, however, didn't seem right either. He was essentially lying about Billie all the time, to everyone he met, but mostly they were lies of omission. He didn't make a habit of actively denying his connection to Billie, and the idea of doing so didn't sit right in his stomach.
She'd moved on. He supposed he could just say nothing. It would hurt nothing to let it go; he'd never met Miss Chevalier before this and would likely not see her after his sight was restored, so it was unlikely to cause any issues down the line. Since he didn't know how long his treatment here was going to take, however, it might create some awkward situations in the meantime. He should say something — but what? He didn't even know if Miss Chevalier's assumption had been only an assumption. Had there been something in Billie's letters, perhaps, that indicated more than she'd let on? True, Billie had never signed her letters with your daughter or anything before, but if she'd decided to start now he didn't want to put his foot in his mouth trying to backtrack.
"Of course," he said, in response to her suggestion. Then, after wrestling with it a second longer, he added, "Miss — about Billie — I don't want you to get the wrong idea."
More like he didn't want her to get the right idea.