Dec 22nd, 2033
As the dead of night enshrouded the skies, the helicopter approached the strictly enforced no-fly zone encircling the formidable Fæstning Hel. The pilot, vigilant and aware of the protocols, reached for the radio, requested permission for their imminent approach. The cockpit, bathed in the soft glow of instrument lights, was suddenly filled with the clear, authoritative response from the castle's command.
"Negative, Hauptkurier. Let him sleep, and take him to the beta site. The Count wishes for him to have a scenic aerial approach view of the castle at a civilized hour." The voice through the headset left no room for doubt or discussion. Compliance was expected and immediate. The pilot, a consummate professional, acknowledged the directive with a succinct "Understood." His hands, reflecting his composed demeanor, made a smooth adjustment to the aircraft's course. With a wide, fluid motion, he steered the helicopter to the left, embarking on a grand arc away from the castle and toward their new destination.
Beneath them, the world was shrouded in darkness, save for the faint outlines of the land that whispered the secrets of the day's work now hidden in night's embrace. A farm, in its winter slumber, appeared merely as a contour of barren fields, the promise of future greenhouses hinted at by the haphazard collections of materials gathered at the construction site. Along the edge of this dormant patchwork, the silhouettes of three helicopters emerged, their resting forms casting elongated shadows in the moonlight. There was a space reserved for a fourth, a gap waiting to be filled.
The helicopter made its approach, its descent as precise as a falcon's stoop. With expert control, the pilot guided the craft into the designated slot, its landing as unremarkable as the ground it now rested upon. The two men within, well-versed in the demands of their profession, knew the value of rest in uncertain times. They followed the example of their passenger, succumbing to the rhythm of repose that soldiers and operatives alike embrace as necessary resilience against the fatigue of duty.
There, in the hushed cocoon of the helicopter's cabin, the trio found respite. The steady breathing of the men synced with the silent, invisible pulse of the earth below, each of them adrift on the sea of darkness that precedes the dawn. They lay in wait for the morning's light, for the day to unveil its face and for the scenic aerial approach that was promised—a sight reserved for eyes refreshed by sleep and for a mind prepared to witness the Count's dominion in the full glory of daybreak.
The first light of dawn, with its subtle warmth and soft hues, crept into the cabin, gently pulling the pilot and copilot from their temporary reprieve in the land of dreams. They stirred, their bodies instinctively bracing for the duties the new day held. As they turned to commence the day's responsibilities, their attention was unexpectedly drawn to the sight of Richard.
In the pale morning light, Richard's expression bore a hint of sheepishness. The harness restricted his hands from touching, leaving him unable to remove his gloves. Consequently, with the gloves on, he found himself unable to operate the harness release. Despite this, he persisted in his struggle against the harness's confines—a modern contraption that, at least for the moment, appeared to have gotten the better of him. His insulated fingers fumbled ineffectively at the release mechanism, a testament to his current predicament. Yet, Richard's pride masked the true extent of his frustration, keeping any overt signs of annoyance at bay.
The pilot, with a knowing smirk, and the copilot, suppressing a chuckle, made their way to Richard’s side. Their hands moved with the ease of routine, quickly freeing him from the seat's embrace. They exchanged light-hearted jabs about the complexity of such safety devices, which, despite their intent to protect, often proved to be puzzles in their own right.
Once liberated, Richard followed the two men out of the helicopter, the blades above them now silent and still. They led him to a modest structure that huddled behind the line of parked choppers, its appearance unremarkable against the backdrop of morning’s arrival. Yet, as they stepped inside, the interior presented a comforting contrast to the frigid air outside.
The building, while spartan in its amenities, offered a touch of modern comfort. The kitchen, equipped with just enough technology to be considered current, was a welcome sight. A scent of coffee began to fill the small space, mingling with the cool dawn air that followed them in. The shower, surprisingly contemporary, awaited its role in washing away the remnants of the night's escapades.
One by one, they availed themselves of the facilities, the hot water a benediction that cleansed and revived their weary bodies. The shower's steam seemed to carry with it the dust of the past, leaving behind a sense of renewal and readiness for the events to come.
Breakfast was a quiet affair, consisting of strong coffee and whatever provisions the kitchen could offer. They ate with the efficiency of men used to making the most of such moments of respite, their minds already turning to the tasks ahead.
As the morning edged towards full brightness, the trio found themselves not only cleaner and better fed but also more grounded in the reality of the day. The castle, with its promise of sanctuary and intrigue, awaited them—but for now, they shared the solidarity of soldiers, bound by a night spent in the sky and the simple comforts of a kitchen and shower at daybreak.
Dressed in the fresh clothes that had been laid out for him, Richard found a measure of comfort in the simple luxury of clean fabric against his skin. The garments seemed to be chosen with care, tailored to fit his frame and suitable for the day's uncertain engagements. This small gesture of consideration was not lost on him; it spoke silently of the forethought that had gone into his arrival at Langeland.
Back aboard the helicopter, the atmosphere was a quiet prelude to the anticipation of the impending arrival at the castle. Richard, who had been a picture of focused silence throughout the morning's proceedings, finally broke his quietude with a request, "When we get to the castle, can we do a loop around?" His voice held a note of eagerness, a hint that the sight of the castle from the air was more than a mere curiosity—it was a piece he needed to place in the puzzle of his current situation.
The pilot gave a simple nod in response, a gesture that concealed the fact that Richard’s wish coincided with the plan already in place. There was no need to reveal that the Count himself had mandated a scenic fly-around of the castle—a detail that the pilot kept to himself. The promise of seeing Fæstning Hel from this unique vantage was an unspoken acknowledgment of the importance of Richard's visit, and perhaps, an understanding of his need to witness the fortress in its entirety before setting foot within its storied walls.
The helicopter, now a vessel of the day's grand tour, banked gently to provide Richard a panoramic view of the castle. The ancient heart of Fæstning Hel rose like a stone-carved titan amidst the verdant sprawl. Its venerable walls, punctuated by towers and battlements, told stories of bygone eras where they stood watch against time and turmoil.
As they circled, a series of newer additions came into view—an impressive array of modern fortifications that embraced the old castle like a protective sibling. It was a stark juxtaposition of time, the seamless integration of the past and present. The turrets, once home to archers and sentinels, were now crowned with the top guns of a more advanced age, their barrels slowly tracking the helicopter’s path in a silent yet vigilant dance.
Richard’s gaze followed the graceful curve where old stone met new metal, the marriage of ancient craftsmanship and cutting-edge technology. The outer encircling layer of defense was a testament to modern engineering—sleek and formidable, equipped with sensors and cameras that glinted in the dawning light, each one a watchful eye over the castle’s domain.
The pilot maneuvered the helicopter with respect to the invisible boundaries set by those protective technologies. Richard, a guest in this aerial spectacle, watched as the harmony of utility and artistry below came into sharper focus. The grounds of the castle were meticulously kept, a green oasis that contrasted with the severity of the defensive structures.
They approached a section where the old and new architectures converged, revealing the ingenuity of the castle's evolution. Here, ivy climbed over meticulously restored stone, intertwining with the cool, dark metal of modern reinforcements. Richard noted the clever disguise of surveillance equipment among the greenery, a chameleon’s trick that blended the necessary with the natural.
Finally, the helicopter ascended to the castle’s rooftop helipad, a modern addition that built upon the castle's roof opposite the base of the highest tower. The landing platform was a marvel of design, its surface brightly marked, in stark contrast with the infrared technology that had adorned the tanker’s helipad - a dare rather than stealth. As they descended, the fortress's imposing figure provided a grandiose backdrop, casting a shadow that slowly retracted with the rising sun.
Richard stepped out onto the desolate expanse of the rooftop, the solid surface beneath him and the vast sky above framing a stark solitude. The area was unexpectedly barren—no guards, no guides, not a single soul to greet him. With the rotor's drone swallowing sounds and words, he cast a questioning glance back at the copilot, whose gestures had to suffice for dialogue. The copilot pointed towards what Richard discerned as a handrail in the distance. Trusting the silent instruction, he began to tread cautiously towards it.
As Richard neared the handrail, the details of his descent became clear: a simple outdoor metal stairway leading down along the helipad's edge to the castle's original rooftop. Just a few steps away, under the protective embrace of an overhang, lay the entrance to the castle, marked by a grand stone archway. Carved into which was a phrase in Danish, which Richard recognized from his briefings. It translated to a provocative notion: "If you are the smartest man in the room, you are in the wrong room."
The phrase echoed in Richard's thoughts as he reached for the ornate metal-strapped redwood door. Was it a deliberate message from Magnus, a playful challenge or a declaration of his own intellectual superiority? Or perhaps it was merely a guiding principle for those who entered, a reminder to seek the company of greater minds. Regardless of its intent, the words set the tone for what lay ahead, weaving a thread of introspection into the fabric of Richard's arrival.
As Richard reached for the heavy obsidian door knocker, his eyes caught the glint of a doorbell nestled beside it. Opting for the modern convenience, he pressed it, and was immediately met with a low, loud resonance that echoed through the internal corridor. The unexpected depth of the sound startled him, a stark contrast to the silence that had preceded it. It was several long minutes, filled with anticipation and the fading echoes of the bell.
Helena St. Sere, the epitome of a supermodel known as the enigmatic Countess Sincere, unexpectedly opened the door, looking as though she’s just wrestled with the mundane reality of life. The state of disarray she presents seems improbable for a woman celebrated for seamlessly stepping from the polished pages of high fashion into the scrutiny of the public eye.
This rare, unfiltered glimpse beyond the polished facade shatters any preconceived notions. It appears that even the most immaculately maintained persona can occasionally succumb to the candid and relatable aspects of a life richly lived. Stood before him, dressed in khaki shorts bristling with pockets, she wears a plain, yet form-fitting white T-shirt marred with smudges of soot and colorful stains. Her hair, typically a testament to stylized perfection, now cascades in untamed waves – a study of the day's endeavors. This unexpected shift from her iconic image is no less compelling, her innate grace, charisma, and confidence seamlessly bridging the gap between her public persona and this private reality.
Helena's notable height almost brings her eye-to-eye with Richard, and that's without the aid of heels, Richard muses, noting her pink Balenciaga slippers. Her stature is offset by the warmth of her soft golden brown skin and the engaging depth of her dark eyes, half-hooded in contemplation or perhaps a playful challenge.
With a casual elegance, she unexpectedly illustrates that life's interruptions to perfection can invite a more genuine connection. Even as she resides in the chaos of reality, her beauty transcends the need for artificial enhancement—she carries an innate grace that speaks of her strength and intelligence as much as of her physical allure.
"Please, come in, Richard. I assumed we'd be meeting tomorrow," Helena intones, her voice effortlessly casting a velvety timbre across the simplest of greetings.
A mix of alarm and exhilaration seizes Richard. 'She recognizes me—Countess Sincere herself!' The thought propels him into a whirlwind of emotions, the kind that elevates the everyday to the extraordinary. Yet, no sooner do these thoughts take flight, they are tempered by the remembrance of her other half—Magnus, whose larger-than-life persona casts a long shadow.
"How do I address you? Your Highness, the Matriarch?" Richard asked, unsure of how to address the wife of a ruler of a country. Though he had spent his life around powerful people, he could not recall ever being in the presence of one directly.
"Countess will do just fine," Helena replied, astonishing Richard with her ability to convey power with a hushed voice. Her low tones forced him to listen more attentively, while her clear diction crisply delivered the meaning of her words.
Following Helena down the hallway, Richard can't resist admiring the sway of her form. The sinuous lines of her figure draw his gaze, and for a moment, he's mesmerized by the hypnotic cadence of her stride—an arresting sight, one that might make any other man forget his surroundings. Yet Richard knows better. He reminds himself to maintain his composure, aware of the slippery slope that lies before him.
"Would you like a beverage? After all, it is the perfect time for a drink somewhere in the world," she offers with an airy gesture toward her collection of spirits.
"That's a universal truth," Richard replies, aiming for a dash of sophistication.
"Bowmore 1966, or perhaps something else from the top shelf?"
"Out of Macallan 1926, by any chance?" Richard jests, a playful challenge dancing on his lips, though reserved for the context of cordial hospitality.
Her response is a playful yet sharp retort. "I wasn't aware we were sleeping together," Helena quips, and the cutting wit of her words slices through the air, reminding Richard of the delicacy of their rapport.
Choking—not on the drink he hasn't yet tasted, nor on a surge of arrogance, but rather on the candid thrill of the exchange—Richard strives to regain his composure. The encounter veers into territories unknown, spirited, yet ambiguous. Each gentle pat on his back from Helena is both a remedy and a spark to his flustered state.
"Like father, like son..." she mutters, her voice trailing off with a wistful smile that speaks volumes. The implications strike him with the force of a freight train: his father, in this same room with Helena, alone? He shoves that thought down fiercely, refusing to let it gain traction.
Her gaze shifts, and Richard stiffens, an unmistakable bulge in his trousers betraying the arousal he cannot hide. The realization of her earlier insinuation about his father washes over him, a piercing acknowledgment that leaves him visibly shaken. Richard attempts to dismiss the notion but soon feels the withering effects of the suggestion.
"Emma!" The call for the maid slices through the tension, Helena's prompt intervention serving as a welcome reprieve.
"Please fetch Mr. MacNaomhán," she articulates his Scottish name with remarkable precision, a rarity outside his homeland, "a Bowmore 1966 with just a touch of Macallan 1926. And inform the Count that his guest has arrived one day ahead of schedule."
The implication of Helena's request resonates with an undertone of intimacy—a mere 'hint,' as it were. Her whimsical instruction effortlessly dissipates the rigid air of self-control that had briefly solidified in the wake of recollections involving his father and her. The phrase 'but a touch' carries a multitude of connotations, and her choice of words sparks the notion that their exchange transcends mere jest.
And then he clears the hormones from his brain forcing in the analytical part his father raised. It's a stray thought that does that task so easily. There is no way at the very least the helicopter could have taken off for the castle without the Count knowing. And that's assuming that the boat didn't call them as they approached land. At minimum they had a good hour to appear as they wanted to. This whole act was staged. Probably to get a read on what kind of man he was. The Count was probably watching through a camera feed. Richard had no idea what to say or do next but he was now on his best behavior.
With sudden clarity, Richard's mind steels itself, banishing the cloud of hormonal fog that had begun to take hold. It takes but a single, piercing thought—a tactic honed by his father's rigorous mental training—to snap everything into sharp focus. The notion that all of this might be a carefully crafted facade settles heavily upon him: The chopper couldn't possibly have cut through the skies toward the castle undetected by the Count. It stretches credibility to believe that their arrival by sea slipped by unnoticed. They must have been given a generous lead time to orchestrate their desired tableau. The entire charade reeked of manipulation, likely an elaborate ruse to take Richard's measure as a man. Somewhere, possibly concealed within the shadows, the Count's eyes might be scrutinizing him through a digital lens. With no script to follow and the unsettling sense of being scrutinized, Richard defaults to impeccable decorum, his every move calculated and deliberate — a chess piece advancing cautiously on a board set by unseen players.
With a sudden intrusion, a gruff and detached voice emanates from behind Richard, leaving a trail of stark information hanging between them. "The Master bids me inform you that an urgent situation at the graphene plant demands his attention, and he shall receive you both on the morrow," the voice declares, the speaker departing as swiftly as he appeared, denying Richard even a fleeting glance.
"Thank you, Jens-Krølle," the Countess responds, bestowing upon the unseen messenger the same meticulous pronunciation she had graciously afforded Richard's name. Richard, unskilled in the nuances of foreign tongues, managed to discern only "Yens" from the swift exchange.
In that moment of contemplation, Richard couldn't help but interpret the messenger's abrupt announcement as yet another deliberate tactic in the ongoing strategic game—a subtle enticement designed to elicit a response, akin to testing a rodent with the promise of cheese. Weary of the relentless machinations, this 'rat' was nearing the brink of his tolerance for these games.
"Do you want to know what kind of man I am?" Richard's uncontrolled outburst echoes through the air. His words ride on a wave of frustrated indignation, fueled by the constant manipulation and nuanced trials that have plagued his journey.
"I'm an observant man, albeit one who lacks the necessary patience and language skills for this job. However, I do hold a broad range of general knowledge, and most crucially, I can identify a test when I see one." Richard's voice, now verging on a shout, echoes through the corridors, fueled by the frustration that has bubbled inside him throughout his entire stay.
"I have no intention of acting on your wife's clumsy advances. Nor do I believe that you're currently in attendance at a graphene refinery, although I am eager to hear more about that at some point. Now, you can come out and face me or have the decency to send someone to show me to my room," Richard demands, his tone steadying despite the tempest of emotions raging inside him. He was weary of this cat-and-mouse game and vowed to stay resolute in the face of whatever may come next.
A hush fell over the room, so profound that the air itself seemed to still. Helena's expression remained unchanged, a silent confirmation of Richard's suspicions, but as the tense minutes mounted, so did his self-doubt.
Suddenly, the silence fractured. A single clap echoed, deliberately paced, poised ambiguously between genuine applause and the patronizing tempo of disdain. From the shadowed recesses of the room, emerging through a doorway that had escaped Richard's notice, came the enigmatic Wizard of Wealth. Magnus materialized, the pallor of his skin as startling in reality as in the overexposed photographs Richard had always deemed retouched. If not for the piercing dark blue of his eyes, Richard might have mistaken him for a figure with albinism, given his pure white hair—so luminous it seemed to emit its own soft glow.
Accentuating his otherworldly appearance, Magnus was clad in a pristine white suit, paired with the subtlest shade of a blue shirt beneath. The ensemble all but cried out for the addition of a white tie, yet the casually unbuttoned collar suggested it had been discarded not long before. Perched on his nose, a pair of wire-rimmed glasses bore lenses so fine that they scarcely altered the appearance of the gaze beneath them. He cut the figure of an elven scholar, embodying both mystery and intellect.
Despite his diminutive frame, Magnus commanded a towering presence in the room. His storied reputation and self-possession gave him an air of gravitas and an aura of importance that felt larger than physical size alone could convey. Every gesture, every movement was imbued with an almost mythical quality that could not be dismissed. He stood before them, a true titan of economic dominance and industry, and Richard felt himself instinctively drawn to that commanding presence. Though his compact stature was hardly imposing, every inch of him radiated an unshakeable confidence that lent him an outsized presence, a force to be reckoned with.
"That's the quickest anyone has determined they were under surveillance," Magnus declared, his voice laced with self-satisfaction that nearly eclipsed his acknowledgment of Richard's sharp observation. The compliment felt more like a pat on his own back for the clever setup than genuine praise for Richard. While Magnus's verbal finesse was undeniable, it did little to endear him to Richard, despite the tycoon's formidable reputation and achievements.
"You do this for all your guests? And here I was feeling special," Richard quipped, though his jest fell on deaf ears.
This moment solidified Richard's immediate aversion to Magnus. Yet, considering the broader picture, it was clear that Magnus stood as perhaps the only figure capable of steering humanity back to a semblance of order. Faced with this reality, Richard acknowledged the necessity of their collaboration. He decided to approach their partnership with the same pragmatic mindset he applied to paperwork: as an endeavor that, while occasionally monotonous, could also prove to be engaging and even thrilling.
This mindset allowed Richard to view their work together as a necessary means to an end. Despite any personal reservations or dislike he might have had for St. Sere, he recognized the importance of their joint efforts towards saving humanity. By approaching their collaboration with a balanced perspective, Richard hoped to navigate their working relationship in a pragmatic and productive manner.
Ever since Magnus made his appearance, the tempo of the day had palpably changed. A steady variety of individuals was now entering the room, each taking a moment to whisper into his ear. At times, these interruptions stole the Count's attention for mere seconds; at others, they stretched into half-hour segments. As the day meandered into the afternoon, their conversation became a disjointed series of sentences, exchanged piecemeal amidst the constant interruptions.
Magnus peered across the room at Richard, breaking the brief silence. "How would you feel about taking a couple of days off? You can ease your way into our culture and this castle without any pressure. It's not a test. You're just arriving at a hectic time. We're preparing for Christmas—three days from now, if you weren't aware..."
Richard lifted his arm, revealing a stylishly thin metal watch. He tapped twice on the face, causing the date to glow. Displaying it with a hint of flamboyance, he held it up for emphasis.
"Ah, an Acronis Works watch," noted Magnus with a hint of nostalgia. "I used to own that brand. Tell me, how has it been functioning without a connection to the Internet?"
"It's hard to say if it's lost any time, but it has kept the correct date for five years straight," Richard replied.
"Impressive," responded Magnus, with a nod of respect. "But back to what's at hand—on Christmas Day, we plan to dissociate ourselves from the rest of the world by destroying the bridge. I'm thinking of calling it 'Self-Reliance Day.' There will be fireworks, plenty of flag-waving, all in the name of boosting morale. With a full schedule of tasks, you're now part of a very busy time."
Richard mulled over Magnus's words before speaking up, "Since we are marking a new beginning, might we consider postponing the event to the day after Christmas? It would allow 'Self-Reliance Day' to have its own spotlight, rather than blending into the Christmas celebrations."
Magnus's face stiffened slightly at the suggestion, clearly not enthused by the idea he hadn't conceived. Just then, Helena, who had been quietly observant, caught Magnus's eye. She gave a subtle nod, her gentle expression signaling her approval of Richard's proposition.
Noticing Helena's cue, Magnus relaxed his posture and conceded, "Very well. The day after Christmas shall be the inaugural 'Self-Reliance Day.' It will be our unique celebration, signaling a new chapter. Your point is well taken, Richard."
"You can simply decree a change in the date like that?" Richard inquired, a tinge of surprise highlighting the ease with which Magnus seemed convinced.
"Indeed," Magnus responded, with an air of nonchalance. "Compressing the timeline at this juncture would have been a rather complex endeavor; however, extending the time frame invariably augments the laborers' contentment. It’s one of the many prerogatives of sovereignty," he quipped, his grin as sharp and foreboding as a piranha's.
Since Magnus had made his presence known, a petite blonde teenager, notably shorter than Magnus, had been weaving through the room, quietly serving and then collecting tiny plates of food. The dishes came and went, some barely touched, only to be replaced with more exquisite morsels. Richard had expected a lavish banquet designed to stroke their host's ego, but this stream of miniature delicacies was both unanticipated and highly enjoyable.
Most of the offerings were unfamiliar to Richard, but the small portions meant there was no need to linger over anything unappealing. He could simply look forward to the next taste experience. The bite-sized duck, stuffed with its own liver, was exceptionally delightful. While several dishes left an indelible mark on his palate, most were a mystery to him. Surprisingly, he found himself satiated before he even fully realized that this had been his evening meal.
As the plates ceased to arrive and were instead supplanted by glasses of wine, Richard's attention momentarily shifted to the young serving girl darting between them. Her Scandinavian features led him to guess that she was no more than 14 or 15 years old, likely to blossom into a remarkable beauty in the coming years. His mind drifted to the various articles he had read about Magnus, who had famously wed at the tender age of 15. The media had often suggested a preference for younger partners on his part, but Richard had quickly discerned the flaws in such shallow storytelling. His experiences so far only reinforced his belief that contemporary journalism had degraded into a farce, devoid of the integrity and investigative rigor that once underpinned it.
Richard surreptitiously slid his finger across the watch face and glanced at the time. To his surprise, it was only 21:15. His exhaustion seemed disproportionate, considering the relatively early hour. He couldn't help but ponder whether he could be experiencing a peculiar form of boat-induced jet lag, a cumulative weariness from extended periods of constant motion. Alternatively, an unsettling thought crossed his mind - had Magnus drugged him? The mere possibility of such a notion existing spoke volumes either about Magnus himself or Richard's deep-seated doubts about his host. It seemed unfathomable that he would feel this fatigued, particularly when the time zone change should have been working in his favor, easing him into the new schedule.
“A word of warning, Richard,” the Countess spoke, and he found himself enticed by the way his name rolled off her tongue—so familiar, so fluid that the phrase 'like butter' suddenly resonated with him in a way it never had before. “That drink you've been *not* sipping,” she continued with a subtle arch of her brow, “is Havana Club Máximo Extra Añejo. My husband acquired it in exchange for a rather favorable alteration to a fighter jet flight plan for a governor. And it's about 45% alcohol.”
"Count," he said, swiveling his head around. "I appreciate the gesture, but such a rare and exquisite item is perhaps wasted on my limited familiarity with rum. I believe we would both be better served if I had a glass of decent whiskey instead." As the words left his lips, he couldn't help but acknowledge the telltale signs of his inebriation. Surprisingly, now that he was aware of his state, he found himself less bothered by it.
A snifter, generously coated, materialized in Richard's grasp. After an appreciative sniff and an indulgent sip, he found himself in a euphoric haze, though slightly bewildered. "Macallan 1926, I'm guessing?" The liquor's exceptional quality was unmistakable, even though he had never tasted in personally.
With the heady courage of the spirits warming his veins, he was emboldened enough to meet the Countess's gaze, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Does this mean the threesome is on?" he queried, his words an audacious dance on the precipice of joke and proposition.
Richard's question hung in the air, a jest dangling on the precipice of a potential reality. The Countess and Magnus, however, chose to navigate the moment with grace, tacitly sidestepping the innuendo. "Åa," the Countess uttered—a sound Richard registered simply as "oo-ah."
He thought for a hopeful and terrifying second that this was an affirmation of his offer. But then, the young blonde girl made her way over, and he realized it was her name. "Please escort our distinguished guest to his chambers; it seems the evening's libations have taken their toll," she instructed, the tone of her voice suggesting a gentle yet firm dismissal. This was followed by a flutter of Danish, an exchange that breezed past Richard's understanding but clearly directed the girl on her new task.