It was a tricky one. Who can understand the workings of fate, after all?
Far greater minds than mine had tried, and failed, to arrive at a conclusion.
There he was, a gift from the gods—handsome, elegant and talented.
I was fine, perfectly fine on my own, but I needed to keep Mummy happy, keep her calm so she would leave me in peace.
A boyfriend—a husband?—might just do the trick. It wasn’t that I needed anyone. I was, as I previously stated, perfectly fine.
Having perused at length the available photographic evidence over the course of the weekend,
I had concluded that there was something particularly mesmerizing about his eyes.
My own are a similar shade, although they’re nowhere near as beautiful, of course, containing no such shimmering copper depths.
Looking at all those photographs, I was reminded of someone.
It was only a half memory, like a face under ice or blurred by smoke, indistinct.
Eyes just like mine, eyes set in a little face, wide and vulnerable, full of tears.
Ridiculous, Eleanor. It was disappointing that I had allowed myself, even for a moment, to indulge in sentimentality.
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