Claudius hasn't gone far, in fact. He's at his desk, where he keeps his alembic and his collection of distillations and compounds in gleaming glass vials, labeled and arrayed on tiered wooden shelves. Besides them sits an intricate brass microscope with several small glass slides, a point of blood between each like a pressed red flower. Claudius awoke first in the canopy bed, shaking off his wonder at the close warmth of his companion, chest rising and falling in sleep. Then he put on a long robe for lounging, and set to work.

At the sound of stirring in the sheets, he looks up, and his expression shifts from concentration to a fond, spreading smile. "Sleep well?" he asks. Claudius certainly did his best to tire him, and speak all the sweet words he promised.