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“I think it highly improbable that I would ever find an understanding with any of the suitors in the ton that would match the connection I have managed to find with you just in this short while that we have become amiable to one another. What point then, to fruitlessly chase these insipid men, when—” Her breath hitched.
Their faces had become so close together that Eloise could see the faint flush rising on Cressida’s cheeks. For a beat, they were both frozen, trembling as if standing before a chasm.
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Angie feels, for a moment, like an interloper, the grief so much that she feels detached from her body, untethered from it all. It feels like a movie, and if she thinks hard enough she can pretend it is one, can pretend that the end credits will roll, and eventually the lights will come back on in the cinema.
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James Bond had courted death throughout his career with the arrogance of a man who believed himself above such petty things, as if death was one more lover he’d escape the embrace of with diversions and distractions. This was a man who always seemed immovable, undying. Beyond things as ephemeral as mortality.

