Claudius thinks of that silly liquor cabinet, and it makes him laugh again, less forced. He thinks of the intimate notes he'd made in his dossier, and it doesn't ache as much as he feared it would. He thinks of the shelves rearranged in his workshop, when he realized his instinct to keep his tools tucked away and hidden wasn't conducive to sharing them, or the way his partner's mind works.

It pleases him to pay attention to the people he loves, and use that knowledge for them, in little ways. When Gertrude didn't stop spending time with him in the garden, he started to plant bulbs for her, flowers that reminded her of home. But it never seemed like enough. "Dost know," he says, "I've always felt my love meant little. Like it was a poor and paltry gift compared to the love of a king or a god. But thou deserv'st to be cherished, and seeing thy desert ... the gifts I have feel richer. They're the jewels I'd have thee always adorned in. The ones whose shine suits the light of thine eyes."