"I’m trying to remind myself that you’re practically twice my age and yet with the maturity of that threat, I can scarcely believe me," she quips, before holding up the book pointedly — there’s a scrap of paper marking a certain page for him.
“Would you rather I threaten to throw you into the cells?” He asks smoothly, eyes darting to the piece of paper. It looks about right, though he won’t be able to tell until he has the book in his hands. For now it’s enough. “I doubt they’ll be as comfortable as you’re used to.”