Not really. Phyri was surprised, but she wouldn’t make Mrs. Malfoy feel any worse by further interrogating it. Instead, she was mostly just regarding her to see her progress in recovering – and she was relieved to see some blood returning to her face, a healthy flush on her cheeks. (It was for the best, that she might let all thought of Browning poems subside.)

All thought of anything else dropped from Porphyria’s mind at that last remark, as did Porphyria’s jaw, her mouth falling open in pure surprise. Now this was as surreal a moment as she had ever had; she made a noise at the back of her throat before she could help herself, and found herself otherwise speechless for a moment. She had to have imagined that. Whatever had happened to coarse and alarming? Bold, improper, outspoken? Sweet? Whatever was she supposed to do with that?

“November Malfoy,” Porphyria professed, once she had at last found her voice again – and there was a little high colour in her own cheeks now, most unusually, beneath the lilt of amusement in her voice – “I think you are the very first person on earth to call me sweet.” Was she the light-headed one here? What was going on? Determined to shake this strange confusion, Phyri sprung to her feet, keeping a hand extended for Mrs. Malfoy. “Do you think you can stand, again?”

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