Gwyn might be near twenty – or nearer sixteen, maybe, to be honest he couldn’t remember – but at her melodramatic sighing Howell had half a mind to tell her she had yet to outgrow the creche, herself. But they were making progress at last, so wearily – and blearily – he stepped into the dimly lit building after her and narrowed his eyes as he scrutinised the place.
“What,” he said, so flatly it couldn’t be mistaken for a question. “Explain.”
“What,” he said, so flatly it couldn’t be mistaken for a question. “Explain.”
