Any capacity Benedict had for independent thought, Atticus believes, was thoroughly flushed out of his system by half a decade spent languishing in indolent hedonism. He won't voice that thought aloud, and in a shocking turn of events that surprises literally no one, he ignores Benedict. Again.

"Is this, here in the library, where you'll be doing your primary work? It would be nice to know how often I can expect interruptions in my own studies."

"Well I imagine that choice isn't up to us, Ser Dragon." Atticus gifts him with a smile like silk that doesn't touch his cold eyes. "We are here at the direction of your Inquisition, after all. We work where we are told to work."