He sets her book gently on the table next to the bed, and lays his hand over her wrists where they stretch near the headboard. She likes it when he forgets his strength, but maybe remembering it and using it is similarly enjoyable, as he shifts his weight, and presses them down into the bedding as he leans over her.

"Forgive me," he says, in a tone that no one has ever used for a genuine apology, ever. "I believe my Orlesian has failed me, for I thought the veil was meant to cover the face."

He runs a hand down along the front of her corset, uncalloused fingers not catching at the silk or embroidery but instead savoring the details, the effort of all her days and evenings, presumably also the time spent with the Fontaine girl.

Briefly, the heat fades, approximately when his fingertips are but a hair's breath away from the excuse passing for smalls, which she has now chosen to wear. Concern is sketched over his face, and he asks, "You are well? It is over now, but it was not too much?"