Anyway blah blah blah one thing leads to another and that thing leads to another thing and that thing leads here: a sluggishly warm afternoon with all the windows open to encourage a cross breeze, the Lady Fonteyn on the tail end of doing business with a number of significant names who are attached to the trading and lending house in Tantervale and who have been persuaded to consider selling their interests in the aforementioned business for a song, and Desi—arranged in some chair in the corner with his sheathed sword balanced lazily across his knees.

It's been clear from the last hour of financial diliberations that no one is getting stabbed or poisoned, and so he's taken to smoking from the rattan chair. Despite the excess of ventilation, the cigarillo smoke still hangs in dregs about his person and the foggy, muddled quality of his surroundings sharpens the glint in his dark eye considerably. He's been watching her for the past handful of minutes, and say what you like about Desidério Amanza but the man has a keen eye.

What good would he be to her otherwise?