“Oh yes,” he said, again moving gladly to the next polite topic “I have The Museum room. It’s entirely themed with Greek art and paintings. Classic mythologies and the like. It’s also so incredibly rich I’m almost certain I’m going to end up sleeping on the floor.” He chuckled. “At home my wife is constantly complaining of me getting out of bed in the middle of the night. She wakes and thinks I’ve left… then steps on me getting out of bed.” He snorted. “She would love it. They’ve done full replications of Apollo and Marsyas, Artemis Resting, amazingly beautiful and she would no doubt take great pleasure in complaining of their ugliness.” A grin. “Mostly to spite me.”
He and Sacha, while fully and totally preoccupied with one another, were also very different. After years aboard sleeping on roll out futons, thin sleeping mats, and dirt floors she could still come home to a feather bed and coil herself into that softness without the slightly adjustment period. Nayan would spend months tossing, waking, possessed by dreams in which he was being swallowed by heat and fleshy cocoons… only to wake to his own bed sheets. He appreciated art by enjoying it, she by critiquing it and ridiculing. He rarely lost his temper. She could shriek about spilled milk… literally spilled milk.