“It suits you.” Odd thing to say about an office, but the room did fit him, neither too large, as her living room seemed, nor too small, as his last office was, straining at his shoulders like an ill-tailored suit. The far wall was made of glass, and outside, on the ridge, Penitents watched the sea for their absent gods’ return.

Like Jace, Claude kept his office simple. Low three-shelved bookcase against one wall, empty save for five thick binders. Coat stand bearing two watchman’s jackets and two gray hats of identical make, one old and water stained, the other its crisp replacement. His desk, one corner occupied by a wire “in” box with a small stack of paper, and a wire “out” box with a larger stack. On the desk lay a plate of barbecue beef, cold, and a hardcover book, open. Claude retreated to the desk, and closed the book.

“Velasquez?”

He laughed. “No.”

“One of your God Wars adventure novels, though.”

“Cawleigh. Velasquez has dragons, pyrotechnics. This is kingship, politics, murder. Awful lot of murder. Especially at parties for some reason.” He held up the book so she could see the cover: brown leather embossed with a basket-hilted rapier, point down, flashed in silver. “But there’s a point to it, I think. Not a moral, but a reason to keep reading. You’d like it.”

“I always liked your books.”

“I mean, I wouldn’t recommend these editions, too expensive, but in Camlaan and Alt Selene they print flimsies, paperbound, fall apart after a read or two, but cheap.” He blinked. “Wait. You hate these books. I gave you Velasquez’s Burning City, and you panned the dialogue, the descriptions, the politics, the characters. You loathed it cover to cover.”

“I didn’t like Velasquez,” she said. “Doesn’t sound like I’ll like this Cawleigh guy, either, but if you think he’s good, I’ll try him.”

“Her, actually.”

“Excuse me?”

“He’s a she. Terry Cawleigh.” He held the leather volume with both hands, and squeezed, as if testing a fruit for ripeness. He smiled, briefly, and returned the book to the shelf. Its leather spine seemed out of place beside the binders with their steel rings and uneven pages. “Why say you like my books when you don’t?”

She leaned against the room’s other seat, a sturdy old armchair of stuffed leather. She thought she remembered it from Claude’s father’s house, years ago. “Did you move this up from your dad’s place?”

“After he moved into the home.”

After the breakup. “How’d that go?”

“As well as you can expect. He’s sad to be gone, happy to be surrounded by a bunch of folks old enough to know how to play cards. And his son visits sometimes. So there’s that.”

“I don’t like the books,” she admitted.

“That’s what I thought.”

“I liked that you like them.”