[ He eyes the napkin, then Lyney. In a sense, he's not wrong: if one of them were to turn back now, to consign this to the oblivion it deserves, that would be easier. They've chanced upon an occasion where the high road is the smoothest one after all. If either of them were to take it--move along, be warden and inmate again, forget every last sliver of this thing that's building between them--the other would follow, and everything would sort itself out in a few months' time.

Instead Lyney moves into his lap and he know that it can't be. He's not sending him away, and Lyney isn't going anywhere if Wriothesley gives him an out. It's another facet of himself reflected in the boy, maybe the worst similarity they have in terms of what to do going forward: they are stubborn people, neither capable of moving an inch in the face of a challenge. ]

Almost. [ He plucks the napkin from between Lyney's fingertips, feels the fabric in his own. After a moment, he discards it at his desk. No distractions--nothing that would take his eyes from the next mistake he's due to make. ] The most frustrating part is that I can't have you. A few years as a Duke, and I suppose I've become used to getting what I desire. I'm sure the same goes for you: you want it, and you make it appear.