"Sit. Down." I say it coolly, precisely. "You can't just tell me all that and then run away. That's cowardly." I look at him, jaw set, until he sits down again, and then I pinch the space between my eyes. There's a sour taste in my mouth.

"Seven weeks you've been with us," I say. "And caused us a lot of trouble, but I haven't minded it because I've cared about you. How long have you known? And why did you stay? For convenience? Or I suppose perhaps it amused you, knowing how I'd forbidden you from staying at the inn before." It hurts quite sharply, thinking of how much time, how much of myself, I've put into looking after him, and it's all, what, some god game? Some cosmic joke for which I would really rather not be the punchline.