Ahh. He loved that she accepted his judgment of her skills, instead of bandying around false modesty. His admiration deepened further still when he detected nothing of conceit in her - the opposite of false modesty and still yet as ugly.
"Come," he said, gesturing toward the empty armchair to his left. He was sitting in the corner of the couch, one arm on the armrest beside him. The furniture had been carefully arranged so that most anyone sitting most anywhere had a comfortable line of sight to others. She could have picked anywhere to sit. He wanted her there, though. And, in some darker place of his heart, he wanted to control her. He wanted to order her, and have her obey.
It had been like that with Christine, in the beginning, too. There was a thrill and a pleasure to compelling others to do his will, especially when his years before the City surfaced. All his life, even in the Paris Opera House, he had been subjected to the whims of others. The only time he ever had control was when he wrested, cajoled, enchanted, or tricked others into giving it to him. And he was very raw now, too shaken to remember the confidence Christine, then Hannibal, had instilled inside him.
"Come," he said again, and though he had been drinking for most of the day, his voice was modulated to influence and drive and press. With it, he could twist most vulnerable minds to his control. Something, however, told him that if she came and sat where he gestured, she would do it of her own accord, not by his command.
This, too, was alluring - maddening, but attractive.