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Rhoklan looked down at the woven liana floor, and held his hands out, palm up.
Every time he apologised, he did that. Real error, false error, something that had nothing to do with him, he always stood like that, hands held out as an offering while he hid his face behind a curtain of white hair.
Suppressed irritation rattled in her chest. The problem was that she could not get angry with him for the habit without him doing it more.
It had taken her a month to work out why. The idea that it would even come up only angered her more. Even if she was purely a heartless pragmatist, why would she strike her secretary’s hands? He needed those to write!
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