The little beast had the gall to do it again, and Barnaby lost three hundred years of (supposed) maturity in moments. “What hilarity,” he bit out, and folded his arms so that they rested atop the hilt of his sword. “Have thou nothing better to do? How sad indeed. Thy life is as miserably empty as thy head?” To illustrate his comment, Barnaby stuck his hand out and put it through her, hand groping about as if he was searching in vain for a brain in her. It would not be remotely comfortable for her – indeed, more delicate creatures might have fainted at such a sensation – but in this case he did not care.

(He was not sure he would have found a heart if he had looked for one, either. Or a soul.)

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