Nova's heart was pounding away furiously which only made maintaining her composure all the more challenging. Could this really be happening? Were Miss Dempsey a gentleman she'd have fancied it was something straight from the pages of a novel. She'd thought Elmer Macmillan was the only like-minded soul in wizarding Britain, perhaps the world, and yet Miss Dempsey had been hiding in plain sight on the other side of Ophelia all this time. She didn't really talk much about poetry around Ophelia, or anyone else really unless it happened to be relevant to the conversation or she thought the present company wouldn't think her odd.
The remark about her name almost put her out of commission entirely. How many years had she been acquainted with Miss Dempsey, how many times had she agonized over her envy for her name, and here she was paying her the compliment first? There was nothing poetic about her name, her mother had cruelly named her for the day she was born as if she didn't know how to name a daughter after having three sons. It could only have been less imaginative if her mother had swapped the order of her names! How could someone with the name Porphyria be envious of hers? Surely Miss Dempsey was teasing? Nothing about her expression or tone suggested she was teasing but she couldn't wrap her head around it otherwise.
Before she could even think about acknowledging Miss Dempsey's compliment by any other method besides her stubbornly blushing cheeks, she was being asked a direct question and what a question it was. There were far too many favorites and now that she seemed to have found herself in appreciative company she felt as though her choices would very much sway Miss Dempsey's opinion of her one way or the other. What if her own favorites were not at all to Miss Dempsey's liking? Was Porphyria indicative of her tastes or an exception because she was named for it? What if Miss Dempsey thought her favorites were too pedestrian or too... whatever she didn't like? She'd have to trust that all the clues in their conversation thus far had lead her to the correction conclusion and if Miss Dempsey was not the kindred soul she'd thought then she'd find out sooner or later anyway. "Well, there are a great many, but... I'm particularly fond of Poe's Lenore, and..." She faltered for a moment as she had second thoughts and generally felt very self-conscious but she forced herself to continue before she could fully lose her nerve. "The Lady of Shalott, La Belle Dame sans Merci, Byron's Love and Death." She had almost gone further but stopped herself before she could sound like the index of a poetry anthology. It suddenly occurred to her that it might sound as though she'd credited Tennyson and Keats poems to Poe and Miss Dempsey would think her an imbecile.
Nova anxiously started to toy with the cuff of one of her sleeves as she tried to anticipate how harsh Miss Dempey's judgement might be. "To name a few." She seemed to be half murmuring this to the other woman's knees at first before she hesitantly tried to make eye contact.
The remark about her name almost put her out of commission entirely. How many years had she been acquainted with Miss Dempsey, how many times had she agonized over her envy for her name, and here she was paying her the compliment first? There was nothing poetic about her name, her mother had cruelly named her for the day she was born as if she didn't know how to name a daughter after having three sons. It could only have been less imaginative if her mother had swapped the order of her names! How could someone with the name Porphyria be envious of hers? Surely Miss Dempsey was teasing? Nothing about her expression or tone suggested she was teasing but she couldn't wrap her head around it otherwise.
Before she could even think about acknowledging Miss Dempsey's compliment by any other method besides her stubbornly blushing cheeks, she was being asked a direct question and what a question it was. There were far too many favorites and now that she seemed to have found herself in appreciative company she felt as though her choices would very much sway Miss Dempsey's opinion of her one way or the other. What if her own favorites were not at all to Miss Dempsey's liking? Was Porphyria indicative of her tastes or an exception because she was named for it? What if Miss Dempsey thought her favorites were too pedestrian or too... whatever she didn't like? She'd have to trust that all the clues in their conversation thus far had lead her to the correction conclusion and if Miss Dempsey was not the kindred soul she'd thought then she'd find out sooner or later anyway. "Well, there are a great many, but... I'm particularly fond of Poe's Lenore, and..." She faltered for a moment as she had second thoughts and generally felt very self-conscious but she forced herself to continue before she could fully lose her nerve. "The Lady of Shalott, La Belle Dame sans Merci, Byron's Love and Death." She had almost gone further but stopped herself before she could sound like the index of a poetry anthology. It suddenly occurred to her that it might sound as though she'd credited Tennyson and Keats poems to Poe and Miss Dempsey would think her an imbecile.
Nova anxiously started to toy with the cuff of one of her sleeves as she tried to anticipate how harsh Miss Dempey's judgement might be. "To name a few." She seemed to be half murmuring this to the other woman's knees at first before she hesitantly tried to make eye contact.
