“What do you expect from this arrangement?” The look in the eyes of the Vicomte and his wife suggests they’re already envisioning their elevated status within Paris society after the banquet as the purveyors of our unique wine.
“An introduction to Lady Anne Boleyn.”
“The maîtresse-en-titre?” The Parrot changes its tune. Before, she was unquestioningly docile. Her tone now is assertive and filled with abject contempt for the English king’s lady. “That is what she is. Regardless of her new title and stature, she is a common whore. Wicked and—”
“Powerful,” Fagin finishes the sentence. “She will be England’s queen. I could have offered this opportunity to any of your peers, but you own the venue where the English court will be received. We could have gone to England, but I thought we could come to an amicable agreement so both of our desires could be satisfied: We get an introduction to the English court and you elevate your status in both French and English societies.”
“We accept your terms, Madame,” the Vicomtess says, her eyes shining with ambition.
Her husband wrings his hands. “Marguerite, ma cher, we should discuss this before we commit to a course of action.”
“Quiet, Henri,” she says. She holds herself differently than a moment ago; she looks assertive, in command. It’s becoming clear who the power in this power couple is. “We shall accept Madame Delacroix’s generous offer.” She turns back to Fagin. “Would delivery on Tuesday next be convenient for you?”
Sensing an end to the negotiation, Nico’s voice pipes through the CommLink. “I’ll order more Madeira from the Replicator. I’m going to need some help. Wine-making isn’t easy, you know.”
As they leave, I put myself in the Vicomte’s way. He leans in to catch a sneaky peek down the front of my dress. I bend slightly forward to distract him with a better look. Then I sideswipe him.
“Pardon, mademoiselle,” he says, extending a hand, a half-hearted attempt to steady me that turns into a grope.
“My apologies, monsieur. I am clumsy sometimes.” I bat my eyelashes as I slip the handkerchief from his sleeve.
He didn’t feel a thing.
Chapter 11
“What if we don’t have enough?” I ask Nico, trailing behind him as he counts the oak casks filled with Miracle Madeira, the name the Vicomtesse has given to our replicator wine.
“Please, stop talking. I’m trying to count,” Nico says, as he waves a portable scanner across the wine casks loaded, pyramid-style, onto wooden pallets. “Instead of nagging me, go talk sense into the lady who is drinking her way through France with our wine before the English even get here.”
Miracle Madeira has catapulted the Vicomtess d’Auvergne, and her husband, into instant notoriety in Paris, and they’ve been hitting the party circuit hard. Their continual demands for more personal-use wine have put a strain on our replicator’s production capacity, and it’s impacting the supply for the banquet. Fagin’s negotiation skills secured our contract as wine merchants for The Staple Inn, but none of us expected threats to cancel the agreement if our partners’ demands for free wine weren’t met.
Charged with managing the ship and ensuring the health and security of all our technology, it’s rare that Nico leaves the confines of the Timeship. We couldn’t allow locals to ferry the wine from the ship to its ultimate destination, so we paid a handsome sum to rent space in The Staple Inn’s private wine cellars so we could teleport the casks directly into the building.
Good thing the Benefactors have deep pockets. I can’t imagine how much my occupation of the time-out corner is costing them, but it’s got to be billions of dollars by now. This whole situation still doesn’t make sense, but our primary concern is keeping the mission from going off the rails as the Vicomte and his wife act like teenagers whose parents are out of town for the weekend.
“What if we run out of wine? The replicator is barely keeping up with generating the supply we need and the banquet is only a few days away.”
“Clémence,” he pleads with an exasperated sigh “Please?”
“Okay. I’ll shut up.”
He shoots me an I’ll believe it when I see it side-eye glance. In return, I mime the universal gesture of locking my lips with an imaginary key, then tossing the key over my shoulder.
He works methodically, moving from one stack of five barrels to the next, all the way to the end of the line. Ten pyramids in all. He taps the scanner’s data pad, and then scratches the back of his head as he reads. He gives me a quick glance.
“Do we have enough?” I ask, again.
“Each cask holds fifteen-hundred liters, give or take. If each goblet holds...oh, let’s be generous here... we’ll say twelve ounces, that’s three hundred-fifty-four milliliters. If each guest has two or three cups apiece, and we expect about four hundred people at the feast, it should be enough.”
“Four hundred? The hologram histories say there are several thousand people, from both sides, descending on Calais.”
“We only have to serve the courtiers attending the party. Besides, we could serve limited quantities to keep everyone’s interest piqued, or serve Madeira to the highest ranking nobles and cheap stuff to everyone else.” Nico pauses, giving me a strange look; it’s an unexpected deep gaze into my eyes, followed by a quick glance at my lips. “Common things are never as desirable as those that are exceptionally rare.”
“Sweet talker,” I say, kissing him full on the mouth.
“Is it working?” Nico asks.
“Always.” I tease him with a quick nip on his ear.
“If we get the Vicomtess to cool it with free wine demands,” he says, “we have enough Miracle Madeira to get through the evening.”
“If we don’t?”
“Then, we serve the good stuff until everyone is good and drunk, then let the landlords fill in with their house wine. No one will notice the difference by then.”
Nico hunches over a cask on the bottom row to inspect a spigot pounded into
