For the last week, Harrow has been at the absolute mercy of her blush reflex. It betrays her once again. "You're ridiculous," she mutters.

She doesn't have a watch, but after a few weeks the four-hour death throes of the universe are burnt into her thanergetic sense. "Gideon, I don't want you to kiss me for the next f--"

"The next minute," she says, and picks up her book again.