"Sit, then, Jessica," Cleon says, patting the chaise next to him with an almost patronising air. That built-in arrogance is like a default setting that he can't turn off, fostered and bred into every inch of him. So he doesn't like the crick in his neck from having to tilt his head back to look up at her; he is, frankly, unaccustomed to it. His dais normally sits elevated above any of his postulants or visitors or dignitaries, the arrivals going to their knees in front of him.

But these private quarters are something different. And, of course, the choice brings her closer and sets her down beside him. Demure. He's supposed to like them demure and fawning, but he's caught in a different whim today — so Demerzel has chosen wisely, although he can't quite tell if it was on purpose or accident.

He shifts on the chaise, angling his body so he's facing her directly: a view of toned golden skin, meticulously taken care of and muscled, despite his lazy life at the palace. Dressed only in comfortable blue lounge pants, the Imperial colour. Stripped-down and casual in a way that no one else outside of this room, and outside of his family, ever gets to see.

"Talk to me about books. Are you a reader?" Many of them aren't; they don't use their minds much.