I haven’t had a moment to myself since I was ten years old.” Lord Soren stood up, took a small blanket off the back of the nearest chair, walked up to Arland, and draped it over his nephew’s head like a hood. Okay. She hadn’t encountered that before. “He is giving me a mourning shroud,” Arland said and pulled the blanket off his head. “Like the mourners wear at funerals.” “So you may lament the tragic loss of your youth,” Soren said.
Their version of the world's smallest violin?
