"Interesting," Cleon XIII says slowly, and it isn't an empty filler word: he does genuinely find this interesting. The gears are already turning in the back of his head, considering the possibilities of what seems like such a simple little experiment on the surface. He's leaned forward a little, already shifting out of his lazy sprawl, his attention piqued. "Do you know if these pieces still exist? Are there any digital replicas?" Quick, capricious, he adds, "No, even if there aren't full copies, I could have someone recreate them. Re-paint the pieces. I can have some brought to the palace and you and I can both gaze upon them, and declare how we perceive them."

On a mere whim, of course he could demand someone execute such a massive undertaking as new paintings and have them carted here for his enjoyment. This man who owns everything, who can command anything. But for once, a concubine thought of something he hadn't, and he finds that— thrilling, almost.

The topic was immensely well-chosen on Jessica's part, like a weapon selected off the shelf, honed to a sharp edge against the Emperor. He still doesn't know if he has a soul. He wonders what Dawn, Day, and Dusk would say if you lined up five different pieces of art in front of them. Their answers should, ideally, be identical even despite their age.

(But part of him fears that they wouldn't.)