Anywhere we want. Anytime we want.

He doesn't know, and Bianca knows that he'll know, now, that he does know her: she's given that much away almost at once. Oh well.

He walks in front of her, and she eyes his back. Between the twelfth and thirteenth ribs, she thinks, close to the spine. Her hands don't move.

"Age before beauty, then," she says, and follows him up the stairs. "Turn right at the top. It's a bar, but there's a perfectly good kettle."