She echoed Dom's nod with a perfunctory one of her own. They were on the same page—though that really should not surprise her.

But from there, it would seem, their stories diverged substantially.

Puzzlement came first to Bellona's features, then defiance—both towards her brother's words and to the small voice within Bella's own mind that pointed out how sensible the statement was. The Macmillans, Lestranges, and Rosiers of the world might consider her grandchildren, even her children, as suitable husbands and wives, but the stink of muggle blood, generations back though it was, was still too fresh upon her. Why else, after all, had she struck out at every opportunity? It was certainly not due to a lack of charm, looks, or accomplishment!

All this made sense, yes, but it was hard to reconcile with the idea that in order to find a husband who knew her worth, the debutante had to lower her standards, to settle for less than.

She almost said as much aloud, almost, before it occurred to her: Domitian was not a pureblood, either. They had been raised in this world, raised with those values, but they were set apart. Bellona could not condemn a halfblooded suitor without condemning of of the two men she cared most for in the world.

Instead, she settled on a small grimace.