"It was when I was twelve. That obvious, is it?" She didn't have to specify what; if he'd asked before disturbing her because he thought she was engrossed in her book, he wouldn't have phrased it that way.

"If I'm not fooling anyone else, I'm certainly not going to fool myself." She closed the book, not bothering to mark her place. She looked over at the man, tucked birdlike into the corner of a sofa. He was barefoot, and his hands were empty. He looked almost like a puppet who's strings had been cut, dropping him into the room. She could sympathize. "Can I help you?"