It strikes her suddenly that he's right — they'd talked about his birthday, but not the age he turned on it, and she's so expertly avoided her own for years now (Alexandrie got away with silently presenting her a gift, once, just) that her own age has just not been a conversation she's had with anyone recently. She can't remember the last time it came up. It's almost strange to do the math and say,
“I'm thirty,” a little as if it's only just occurred to her that she has in fact (at some unspecified time in the presumably recent-ish past) hit that particular milestone. Who'd have thought. “I'd have been, I think, twenty-two when I was first sent to the Inquisition.”
With substantially less trepidation: “How old are you?”
no subject
It strikes her suddenly that he's right — they'd talked about his birthday, but not the age he turned on it, and she's so expertly avoided her own for years now (Alexandrie got away with silently presenting her a gift, once, just) that her own age has just not been a conversation she's had with anyone recently. She can't remember the last time it came up. It's almost strange to do the math and say,
“I'm thirty,” a little as if it's only just occurred to her that she has in fact (at some unspecified time in the presumably recent-ish past) hit that particular milestone. Who'd have thought. “I'd have been, I think, twenty-two when I was first sent to the Inquisition.”
With substantially less trepidation: “How old are you?”