[Her cheeks drain of color, her lips pressing tight together. They're the only giveaways she has; her expression doesn't change otherwise, because she's damn certain to be sure it doesn't. And she has to be certain, because if she were any less in control of herself she'd balk, gasping and gaping at him like an idiot.
Because the sheer audacity of what he asks is absolutely staggering. It's nothing compared to what she demanded of him. An hour of that, perhaps, but even then . . . she'd demanded honesty. She hadn't demanded he act like the healer he once was; she hadn't taken everything he'd struggled his entire life to break away from and throw it in his face.
If I ask you to sing . . . God. God. Does he know the magnitude of what he's asking her? Perhaps. She'd told him of the sexism that pervaded Columbia-- but does he have any idea? Does he have an inkling of an idea? How many times had she had to endure all those criticisms, all those prodding suggestions, malicious in their sweetened tones, disguised as merely helping . . . smile, Rosalind, you'll look prettier that way; don't speak out, Rosalind, no man will want a wife who upstages him . . . and oh, that stupid poem, that utterly inane piece of drivel that was meant to guide every upstanding woman. The Angel in the House, she'd torn it up when her mother had pointedly left it on her bed. Man must be pleased; but him to please / Is woman's pleasure, and she'd sworn to herself she'd never be in a position where anyone would dare ask that of her, and now here Ardyn is, doing just that.]
I asked an hour. You demand a day. It's not remotely the same.
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Because the sheer audacity of what he asks is absolutely staggering. It's nothing compared to what she demanded of him. An hour of that, perhaps, but even then . . . she'd demanded honesty. She hadn't demanded he act like the healer he once was; she hadn't taken everything he'd struggled his entire life to break away from and throw it in his face.
If I ask you to sing . . . God. God. Does he know the magnitude of what he's asking her? Perhaps. She'd told him of the sexism that pervaded Columbia-- but does he have any idea? Does he have an inkling of an idea? How many times had she had to endure all those criticisms, all those prodding suggestions, malicious in their sweetened tones, disguised as merely helping . . . smile, Rosalind, you'll look prettier that way; don't speak out, Rosalind, no man will want a wife who upstages him . . . and oh, that stupid poem, that utterly inane piece of drivel that was meant to guide every upstanding woman. The Angel in the House, she'd torn it up when her mother had pointedly left it on her bed. Man must be pleased; but him to please / Is woman's pleasure, and she'd sworn to herself she'd never be in a position where anyone would dare ask that of her, and now here Ardyn is, doing just that.]
I asked an hour. You demand a day. It's not remotely the same.