"Hm." Mycroft clears his throat and refolds his legs. Anderson seems supremely unconcerned with this situation—which, Mycroft admits, at this point, might be fair.
"Tilt the umbrella over, the sun's in my eyes," Anderson says, without moving.
Mycroft nudges the umbrella over, so the shade covers them both more evenly.
"Thanks," Anderson says.
"Mr. Anderson," Mycroft says, after a minute.
Mycroft clears his throat and says. "I hate to ask," he says, hesitantly, "but..."
"Hm?" Anderson squints up at him. "Oh, that. Well. It's nothing, really. Just always had a special kinship with reptiles. Bit like that, um—the boy wizard, from the books."
Mycroft frowns. "Harry Potter?" he asks.
"That's the one," Anderson agrees, tucking his knees up tighter.
Beneath them, the giant tortoise makes broad, smooth strokes towards shore.