He understands how this works, theoretically. Her predictions are sufficiently vague, their applications sufficiently numerous, that he can fit his experience into the story she creates with an ease that rings uncanny. He knows it isn't true – but he's never known truth to be the most effective weapon anyway. He thinks of David, of the trial, of defying his father, and his eyes take on that veiled hue lest they betray any real emotion.

"'Were,'" he repeats for emphasis, with a sardonic, self-depreciating edge. "I guess I can't argue with that. And my present?"