She had been on edge all yesterday, since sending off her letter – had he read it yet? she had wondered at odd intervals, all day long – and she had said a little prayer to herself in the privacy of night and under the canopy of her bedcovers, that this Lonely Heart might be the solution to making her heart less lonely. She had maybe gone a little overboard with the confectionary theme, but...
An owl at the window; the reply was here. And it came with a small parcel of something! That must be a sign of something good! Jemima flung herself onto her bed to read it, unfolding the parchment with shaky fingers.
Oh.
Oh.
Oh no.
Her hopes were dashed – dashed against the wall until they were beaten and bloody, for that matter. She ought to have guessed it might be Mr. Honeyduke: he was one of Hogsmeade’s most well-known bachelors; apparently he had no interest in finding a wife, or at least not through Witch Weekly, or at least not her.
At least she hadn’t signed her name or given any indication of who she actually was, Jemima considered, once she was finished groaning into her pillow. Still, she wasn’t sure she would ever be able to face going into Honeyduke’s again, knowing what she had done. She would just have to never eat anything sweet again to spare herself such suffering, Jemima resolved – she unwrapped the consolation packet of sweets and crammed hem all into her mouth at once, if only to be rid of the evidence. So much for that route; how was she ever going to find a man to fall in love with her?
It had taken until the next morning to stop cringing long enough to pen a response.
An owl at the window; the reply was here. And it came with a small parcel of something! That must be a sign of something good! Jemima flung herself onto her bed to read it, unfolding the parchment with shaky fingers.
Oh.
Oh.
Oh no.
Her hopes were dashed – dashed against the wall until they were beaten and bloody, for that matter. She ought to have guessed it might be Mr. Honeyduke: he was one of Hogsmeade’s most well-known bachelors; apparently he had no interest in finding a wife, or at least not through Witch Weekly, or at least not her.
At least she hadn’t signed her name or given any indication of who she actually was, Jemima considered, once she was finished groaning into her pillow. Still, she wasn’t sure she would ever be able to face going into Honeyduke’s again, knowing what she had done. She would just have to never eat anything sweet again to spare herself such suffering, Jemima resolved – she unwrapped the consolation packet of sweets and crammed hem all into her mouth at once, if only to be rid of the evidence. So much for that route; how was she ever going to find a man to fall in love with her?
It had taken until the next morning to stop cringing long enough to pen a response.
17th February, 1892
Dear Mr. Honeyduke,
Thank you for the sweets – and I apologise for the horrible shock you must have faced, but I beg your forgiveness and will thank you to (if you have not already) promptly throw my letter in the fire where it belongs – please do not look at it again! – so you nor I nor anyone else can relive such mortifying words. I don’t know what I was thinking. It was a ridiculous notion, to send a reply in the first place.
Good day.
Yours,
Mortified
Mortified
