"Ines?" he managed to say. His voice, to his own surprise, was perfectly, utterly, calmly neutral. It cost him everything to make it so.
"Yes, Ines," Rowan said, his voice a sigh of pure, bitter, frustration. He did not seem to notice Carcel's sudden, terrifying stillness. He was too lost in his own.
"She will soon be turning twenty-two."
Carcel… blinked.
This was... this was not what he had expected.
He realized, with a lurch, that Rowan was not talking about them.
Rowan, oblivious to the fact that his best friend had just, in his own mind, prepared for his own, immediate, and well-deserved death, continued. He was not angry. He was... miserable.
He pinched the bridge of his nose, his eyes squeezing shut again.
"Twenty-two," he repeated, as if the number itself were a curse. "Other ladies… other, normal ladies… they marry as early as sixteen. No later than twenty. But Ines… Ines had her debut at sixteen."
He let out another long, tired, sigh. "Six seasons, Carcel. Six."
