The difference between feeling precious about your own sense of time, versus having so much of it to spend. Almost the difference between Vanessza chasing what's on show with her eyes in distanced regard and Lucius analysing the configuration of ice in his drink and the light bouncing off polished mahogany, and sometimes, Benevenuta's ankles.

That, and he's married.

Cosmically.

"Young women are permitted to enjoy certain liberties," he says, instead, bringing his gin and its shadow helping of tonic to drink from. "I believe that's written down somewhere. Where you came from--" And he almost wants her to say yes, here, having some sort of mutual understanding would be good, although goodness knows why. "Did you have anyone?"