"Because you are a soft-hearted weenie who mistakes me for one of the swooning damsels in your magazines," Harrow says, something warm backing the tart snap of her voice. Her smile turns into a smirk, and she rolls her eyes. The fingers of her free hand return to Gideon's hair, combing almost idly from her temple and up, following the curve of her skull. "I have started picturing it longer. Not by much, but...enough."