For phoenikxs. A follow-up to Debut.
Dany had never imagined being so perfectly happy at a debutante ball. Her brother was considerably less so, glowering as she placed her hand in Sir Jorah’s much larger one when he came to claim the first waltz which she had promised him the previous afternoon, but for once in her life she did not fear Viserys’ disapproval. How could she, when she was being swept across the dance floor in the powerful arms of this man whom she already had come to count as her dearest friend? Her feet scarcely seemed to touch the ground.
“I still can’t believe you found our volume of Le Morte d’Darthur,” she said.
“It’s a strange coincidence, I’ll grant you,” Jorah replied. “I swear, I had no idea.”
“How could you? There was no indication of its owner. Only I knew about the toffee stuck to page three hundred eleven.”
“For which I was able to bargain the bookseller down from his asking price.”
It hurt to hear the sale of her beloved book being spoken of in terms of monetary value—it was positively vulgar—but she knew Jorah was only teasing.
“Such a rare edition is priceless,” she said, and his fingers gave her hand a squeeze that seemed impossibly gentle for hands so large and strong as his. “Perhaps if you happen to go in again, you might look out my Tennyson.”
“Idylls of the King?” he asked, and at her nod he said, “I’ll take you with me.”
Dany’s heart leapt—her love for books had not overcome her dislike of Mr Mopatis, and the feeling that all his generosity toward her and Viserys, even the use of his library, came at a price. To spend time with books, and with Jorah, away from Pentos Place, would be more than she could have hoped for, but she must not forget propriety. Even if they were only friends.