The night was surprisingly warm, as if the Lenten moon were a sun hanging overhead, infrared as well as silver. He suspected it was an illusion, a side effect of how relatively warm it was at Blossom Vale compared to the Isolde. He supposed even the dreadful Arctic might seem tropical next to the ice created by that admittedly cost-ineffective machine. He had always preferred it cold, given the timeless ease of heating cold spaces over cooling warm ones. Still, the experience had left him with a surprising understanding of why so many people favored warmth. Not sympathy, no, but understanding.
Thaddeus Morocco sat down on a bench, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back to look at the view. Even in the nighttime, Blossom Vale certainly was beautiful, though not as beautiful as the money the town had turned down to preserve it. Given that he would have received none of the profits thanks to those meddling Burnses and Greenes, of course, Morocco was happy for the turn of events. He could enjoy the view, at least. And watching the moonlight glint on the undulating water, the lingering ice beyond it, the softly shuddering leaves on the trees, and the midnight blossoms beckoning to the stars, he could understand why short-sighted people would choose a sight like this over money. It was easier to squander wealth than it was to waste ideas, easier to make poor use of that which can be consumed than that which does not diminish with use. A thing to be used was transient in a way that a view was not, for the sight would always be there, in a fashion.
The thought brought his mind back to Zachary Burns, and the portrait of him hanging in that lost ship. Zachary had always been Thaddeus' favorite Burns, being the least obnoxious, the most dignified. Of course, he had been forced to feign distaste for the poor sap after his former iteration's "passing," and he suspected that was the source of Charles' grudge against him, but a fondness remained. The portrait, now hanging in his submarine, would be a gentle reminder of an era when Griffin Rock appreciated Morocco, respected and lauded him as he was entitled.
But then he remembered the little boy, and the wide dark eyes that contained more gall than Charles could even dream of having. The ten-year-old who came back for his robots, who seemed to accept even machines as his friends, whose infuriating devotion had proven the single greatest threat to Thaddeus' plans for the last seventy-five years of his life. Young Cody would so love that painting, or a facsimile, and such a sentimental creature would always remember that Thaddeus Morocco had given it to him.
He stood, turning away from the first vestiges of spring, trying to remember where Charles and his children lived. As he went, he took one last look at the water. He could still see ice, but some had melted.