Jules stopped. One word, and he resettled in his chair. Perhaps it was that hint of emotive, the promise of something more than ice-blue blank regarding him. Like the almond cookies that tasted like devoid, and maybe there was ought else there if he took sufficient bites.
He noticed nothing wrong in the yellow and gold. He saw the room as a fairytale thing, and he didn't expect bad things beneath the surface. The Russian mafia was a creature unknown, not seen in vestibules and sacristies, and this was merely a place for food. Gotham was, perhaps, not the safest home for the boy far from vespers.
Yet, he wasn't expecting the next words from Loren's mouth, and he'd a moment before he caught up. Parted pink lips, and a question in pale eyes that were lined pretty. "I don't hold it against you. I know you were worried, however you paint it now, cariad."
But not speaking of the past was something good, and Jules took another bite of food and inclined his head with more agreeable reservation than he'd possessed in Vegas. "Shall we talk of the years between?" He crossed his legs again.