Autor, noticing her interest, holds the sylladex out for her inspection. It looks like a simple, leather-bound journal, and on each page is a drawing of, say, feathers, or bags. "A gift," he says, and then stores the inventory system in his pocket. "A useful one."

Then he grins, sauntering--in so much as he can saunter, now--towards the bar. "Cakes sound lovely. Thank you for the invitation to tea, Your Highness."

Holding open the door, he politely inclines his head. "After you."