You simply said, “I have always slept alone.” “You don’t say.” You heard the primness in your voice when you said, “I am betrothed to the Locked Tomb, Tridentarius. I slept on a cot in my cell.” “I always forget you were an honest-to-God nun … and six years old to boot, if you listen to Mercymorn. How old are you, really, Harry?” “Eighteen, and my tolerance for Harry wears thin.” “Eighteen,” she said, in the tones of the jaded, fagged-out socialite. “I remember being eighteen.” “You are twenty-two.” “It’s a universe away from eighteen.”
