"Refuse," he repeats, amused, as he lays back down again. The pillow goes under his head. Who has ever refused him? The list is very short. Val de Foncé is not worried, nor has he ever been.
When she puts her head around the door, he lifts his head and meets her squinting eye. Considers, before he answers.
"I like cinnamon very much."
A shockingly brief statement. He lays his head back down again.
Her nod is curt. And with a rap of the knuckles on the door frame for confirmation, Wysteria disappears once more into the twisting interior of the old house.
Presumably, she fetches that bottle of white wine and some remaining half box of cinnamon cookies, and returns promptly enough. Presumably, they have a fine afternoon discussing Orlesian lumber and arguing over the semantics of running trade around Val Chevin. Presumably, at least one of them at some point sits in a chair.
In the grand scheme of business meetings, it is a perfectly productive use of time.
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no subject
When she puts her head around the door, he lifts his head and meets her squinting eye. Considers, before he answers.
"I like cinnamon very much."
A shockingly brief statement. He lays his head back down again.
no subject
Presumably, she fetches that bottle of white wine and some remaining half box of cinnamon cookies, and returns promptly enough. Presumably, they have a fine afternoon discussing Orlesian lumber and arguing over the semantics of running trade around Val Chevin. Presumably, at least one of them at some point sits in a chair.
In the grand scheme of business meetings, it is a perfectly productive use of time.