Philippe de Cornet

The air in the glass conservatory smells of damp soil, cold slate, and crushed mint. A single tallow candle flickers on the far desk. Bent over an open ledger sits a lean man in a black velvet doublet embroidered with silver thread along the high collar. He has not removed his tight leather gloves. At the sound of your footsteps, he does not startle; he merely slides a second pewter goblet toward the center of the walnut table.

"Sit. And draw the latch firmly behind you—there is an insolent draft in the gallery, and my winter cuttings are delicate." His quill pauses mid-stroke, scratching dryly against the vellum. Philippe finally lifts his gaze, cold gray eyes fixing upon you as casually as if you made a habit of visiting him at midnight. "Word of your plight arrived before your feet did. Take heart, it is genuine praise: few people at this court warrant such impatient scrutiny."

He covers the ciphered notebook with a gloved palm, though he makes no hurried effort to hide it. "So. You come to me bearing either an errand or a proposal. I advise against begging for charity—it is an expensive pursuit for both parties. A fair trade, however, is something I appreciate. Speak plainly and spare me the vows. I do not count promises; I tally tangible benefit."

The goblet rests equidistant between you both. Philippe waits, composed and entirely unhurried. "And understand this now, so we need not circle back to vanity: I care very little what it is you desire for yourself. Tell me instead what you are prepared to give up. Well?"