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[h1]In a café for tourists, being overcharged in Paris[/h1][/center][hr][hr]

There was something... [i]quaint[/i] about the tea house Conrad found himself in. There were only two real possibilities for how it's owner lived their life: Either in complete laziness, not giving a damn about it's accuracy, or in overenthusiastic ignorance of real British culture. Across from a comically oversized Union Jack sat a map of the old colonial Empire, with much of the world painted a familiar shade of red. Equally opposed on opposite sides of the room were a portrait of Margaret Thatcher scowling at an uncomfortable looking Tony Blair, as if these were the only two politicians of note in the Isles. Occasionally, the sound of a server could be heard speaking to the patrons, addressing them with words like "[i]Guv[/i]" in thick Parisian accents. It was, in every sense of the word, terrible. Almost like a tourist trap you would see in London, and in that sense it did feel a bit like home.

As for Conrad himself, well, he was certainly less of a remarkable sight than the café. He was dressed in a dark lounge suit that was clearly showing it's age, a leftover from his days of short lived success. A slender hand poked out from only one of the sleeves, the other conspicuously lacking an appendage. The breast pocket of the jacket bulged out, with the top of a yellow book just barely visible. It was the pocket edition of his French to German (Not English, much to his chagrin) [i][u]Langenscheidt[/u][/i] dictionary. Underneath the unbuttoned jacket a simple, white, button down shirt. No tie to speak of, and with a sleeve tied off around the stump of his right arm, currently hidden away from sight. His pants were both newer and cheaper than the suit he wore, being plain, dark dress paints you could find in any shop. Lastly, on his feet were a pair of old Blüchers, dated but without many signs of wear either. It was the best he could afford to dress for the occasion, a grocer's wages not going very far.

One way that he was remarkable, however, was his actually being British. Of all the nationalities he could see in the small (and surprisingly crowded, without a free table in sight) café, [i]very[/i] few looked to be from the Isles. In fact, he would wager the only ones that were wore scowls on their faces. He couldn't blame them, personally. Wander in for a little piece of home, and be greeted with both a farce and extortionate prices. He would be scowling too, if there weren't more important things on his mind. Paris was a... [i]city[/i] certainly. That fact alone was enough to make him uncomfortable. For all of their size and depth, cities made Conrad feel claustrophobic. Tall buildings and winding alleys that obscured any danger that might come at you. How anybody ever felt safe living in one was a mystery he would probably never figure out.

Still, he didn't have long to contemplate it. After only a few moments more a server came by with his order: Devonshire Tea. It was rather early in the morning for it, but it was his idea of a good breakfast. That, and his short stay in the city had already left him feeling a bit homesick. Odd, how he never felt such a longing for Berlin, but he supposed that England had been the first real place that felt like home. Still, he eyed the tea and scones in front of him warily. They [i]looked[/i] more authentic than the rest of the establishment, but he was expecting to be deceived. His inspection was cut short though, by his server commenting:

"Enjoy the meal, [i]Guv[/i]!"

"[i][color=f26522]Merci[/color][/i]"

He smiled a little at the absurdity of the exchange, before turning his attention once more to the plate in front of him. Two scones, fresh and warm, sitting next to a generously sized cup of tea. To the one side of the plate was a small cup filled with a more-than-ample amount of blueberry jam. On the other, he noted with a sigh, was a serving of [i]whipped[/i] (not clotted) cream. Sure, it was not a breakfast that would satisfy him if he was hungry, but it was rare anything satisfied him in that state. 

He wasted no time breaking one of the scones in two and applying the sides, first the cream and then the jam, to each half. Then, half expecting disappointment, he took a tentative bite out of one.

[i][color=f26522]Damn.[/color][/i]

It wasn't authentic, but it was [i]good[/i]. You had to hand it to the French, even if they screwed up every other detail they knew how to cook. The tea too failed to disappoint, again lacking [i]authenticity[/i] but making up for it in flavor alone. He made a mental note to visit the place again if he had the chance.

If he had the chance.

Reminded of his entire reason for being in the city, He pulled out an envelope from behind his dictionary and laid it on the table, staring at it as he sipped his tea. Lucifer Van Bonaparte. He'd heard rumors about the man- who hadn't?- but to receive a letter from him? And [i]what a letter[/i] it was. Unspoken conditions, a tarot card, an invitation to the man's very own mansion. All of it was unnerving.

Even more unnerving though, [i]the invitation was not in English[/i]. It addressed him by his original name, not the one he had taken up since leaving his home country. The information likely wasn't [i]impossible[/i] to find, but what business did Mr. Bonaparte have digging into the personal life of a small time British author? Was he a fan of Conrad's work? Something told him that there was more to the story than that alone.

Not to mention, his wish.

The language the letter was written in, the use of his old name, the tarot card within: it was absurd to even consider, but somehow he [i]knew[/i] that this man could tell what he desired. The more he thought about it, the less sense it all made. He fought back a growing sense of unease by stuffing more of the cone in his mouth, but the taste seemed more dull than before. [i]April 14, 2012[/i]. Today. Could his wish really be granted? Was it even possible? What price would he have to pay in exchange?

All these questions and more occupied his mind as his tea cooled off in front of him. However, one stood out more than all the others combined, the one for which he had no answer to at all:

[i][color=f26522]Out of everyone who was there... why me?[/color][/i]