"Athessa," Bastien echoes, looking up from the desk—which he'd fully agree doesn't suit him, and in fact would say is a travesty and a crime against his person—and its scattered papers.

He recognizes the staff. He also doesn't really look at it. That's what peripheral vision is for. He puts his hand in his chin on the table and smiles at her, in the cautious way of a man who expects something to be wrong but wants to be pleasant in the meantime.