“We'll know who to blame,” Petrana says, releasing her affectionate grip on the end of Marcus's hair (a perfectly appropriate greeting in the privacy of their own room) to allow Julius to draw her in turn, kissing the corner of his mouth.

(It's Corypheus. They can, perpetually, blame Corypheus.)

“Thank you,” she adds, pressing a hand lightly to his stomach, “for arranging this.”

Both for ensuring that she turned up and in a timely fashion, and for allowing Marcus to be on the receiving end of a romantic gesture rather than, as a matter course, making most of them. To Marcus, “Wine, first, I think?”