"I was six," he murmurs. "With Noel. I was six, and I didn't think there was anything the matter with it, but-- Father Cornelius. I was sixteen. How did he know?"

How did he know he could do that to me? is the question he can't seem to finish. A wave of nausea hits him, an unpleasant rush all the way out to his fingertips. If not for his grip, he might have dropped the mug.

He looks at Anthony, finally, plaintively searching for-- He doesn't even know.