The last two bottles show less age and dust than the others. Fagin opens each one, ensuring the nobles watch every move as she decants the wine, then she sets the bottles where their labels are visible at all times. I bring two clean glasses for each decanter, and uncover a small tray of sliced bread and bring it to the table.
“The wine needs to breathe, but it’s important for you to watch as I decant them so you can verify you’re not drinking from one bottle. Even in their current state, your discriminating palates should discern the veracity of my claim.” Fagin disarms him with a flattering gaze. She gestures to the first decanter. “First, the Fifteen-Aught-Seven vintage.”
“Twenty-five years old?” he asks, as he leans toward the table to read the dust-smudged label. He runs his thumb across the delicate paper until he’s able to read the faded ink stamp.
Fagin spreads her hands open in a gesture of invitation. “The first of several rare and precious vintages before you today.”
The Vicomte gives Fagin the same look he might give a clueless child. Simple, weak-minded female, he might be thinking. She’s been duped into believing a fairytale about her wine.
“We’ll see about that.” The Vicomte pours a small amount of the deep ruby liquid into two glasses and hands one to his wife. They sniff. Then sip and swirl and swallow.
“Please, cleanse your palates before the next drink,” Fagin says, handing them each small pieces of bread. She notes the pair’s dubious expressions, and explains. “It ensures your mouth is a fresh canvas for the wine to paint upon.”
Still doubtful, they each nibble a small amount of bread before proceeding to the next carafe.
“Now, the Fifteen-Twelve,” Fagin announces with a flourish, and provides two generous pours of the next decanter. God, I love watching her work. So damn smooth.
The Vicomte raises his glass, leveling a steady gaze on the implacable Fagin. Again, the couple sniffs. Sip and swirl. Swallow. Confusion clouds the Vicomte’s eyes as realization dawns, but he’s not ready to admit the truth on his own taste buds. His wife’s expression doesn’t change as she samples the first three bottles; she seems clueless about what she is experiencing.
The ritual continues for each bottle, the vintage presented in five-year increments: A Seventeen, a Twenty-Two, and a Twenty-Seven.
“How can this be?” The Vicomte says, dumbfounded. He pulls a handkerchief out to mop his brow and my fingers twitch in response.
As a young pickpocket, I learned how to spot quality merchandise. This handkerchief is superior quality. It’s silk, likely Italian since Francois is several years away from establishing a silk monopoly in Lyon. I could get a pretty penny for it back home since it’s a status symbol in this time. Only nobles can afford such expensive things.
No embroidery or monogram. I wouldn’t have to spend hours with a needle picking out the threads. My palms itch.
“Have I proven my wine is what I say, Monsieur le Vicomte?” Fagin asks, even though she can see the answer in his face.
“It’s quite remarkable,” he says, stumbling over his words. “There is no discernable difference between the old bottles and the new.”
“With the first shipment, ten bottles of each vintage—fifty bottles in all—you would become the envy of Paris overnight.”
At this, the Parrot’s eyes sparkle like greedy little diamonds. “The envy of Paris,” she says in a whisper.
“If you wish to sell this unique wine for profit, I’m sure we can agree on terms,” Fagin says.
“Perhaps. You will find me a merciless negotiator, Madame,” he says in all seriousness, as Fagin retrieves the contract and a quill.
If you’re as good at negotiating as you are at hiding greed, you’ll be begging Fagin to pay you instead of the other way around. For a moment, I wonder if the new translator program can indeed read minds because Fagin flashes me a smile behind the Vicomte’s back that radiates her joy of a victorious hunt. She has her prey caught in a thicket, and he’ll not escape.
“I think you’ll find, sir, that my desires run to more important currency than money.”
“Currency more important than money?” It’s his turn to parrot; his tone is equal parts aghast and curious.
“Certainly.” Fagin returns with the paper and sets it down on the table. “I have made my fortune in imports and exports of various kinds, and I find myself an independent woman of means. What I want is—”
“A suitable husband,” the Vicomte says, with a thrust of his index finger into the air. He’s button-busting proud that he guessed Fagin’s ulterior motive before she revealed it. “Of course, the Vicomtess and I could introduce you to eligible and wealthy bachelors in Paris. We know everyone of importance in the city.”
“Yes,” the Parrot says, nodding, “we know everyone.”
“No, Your Grace.” Fagin says, with a demure hand raised in front of her chest, a gesture of both deference and resistance. “I want to provide the wine for the English king’s visit in two months.”
The Vicomte’s eyes widen and his mouth pulls into a small circle. “How do you know about that? The visit is a state secret.”
“Sir, there are no secrets at court,” Fagin laughs. “I have my sources.”
“Even so, Madame, I am not at liberty to discuss the king’s business.”
“I know what will take place in Calais, and how important this visit is to both sides. King Henry wants heads of state throughout the continent to accept his new lady as queen. He is merely starting with the friendliest ally he can think of: our king.”
“Madame, your intimate knowledge of the circumstances is as extraordinary as your wine.” He seems to be weighing his words like a merchant at his scales. “Why do you think I can help you?”
“Because you are landlord of The Staple Inn, the venue for the festivities. Here is my proposal,” Fagin says, rubbing a finger around the opening of the decanter. “I will sell you
