( Penelope Declair's POV )
He did it on Friday evening.
In the common room.
In eleven words.
I counted them.
I count things he says. It is a habit I developed somewhere around thirteen and have never examined closely, because examining it would require admitting why.
Eleven words.
"You do it. Whatever it turns out to be. You're better."
Then he stood up.
Tucked that ridiculous pillow beneath his arm.
And went upstairs.
Not stormed off. Not avoided anything.
He went upstairs at half past eight in the evening like a person going to bed.
Which was exactly what he was.
Because he had been awake for three days and had finally stopped being able to pretend otherwise.
I remained in the common room for some time after that.
Thirty-six people.
Three days until Monday.
A competition nobody will describe.
And eleven words.
***
I was not angry immediately.
That matters.
It means it was not a reflex.
