Overwhelming. The first word that comes to mind, bearing the sights of Saint-Ys in person, is overwhelming. Cream-coloured buildings, green multi-sided roofs that seem to thrust towards you as if demanding your very attention. That and much more ornate work all over!

Wrought iron, forged into spiralling handrails, cobblestone streets that go tip tap when you step on them, and little cafes dotted with outdoor chairs and smokers! It’s all just super fantastical!

“You see that, Yunluo?” Ysabeau gestures to a building nearby. Wide and lined with symmetrical windows, it appears to be of residential make. “This is ‘oise’ stone, mined from our southern quarries; it’s been granted a distinction of French excellence, truly beautiful, is it not?”

Replying in an intense nod, I hope my appreciation comes through.

“Are you enjoying yourself?”

I nod again.

“Then all is well.”

We stop at an intersection, walking past when the light flashes green. In that instance of movement, my attention turns to those around—the inhabitants of this walled-off city. From my perspective, the aesthetics on display wouldn’t be out of place in some avant-garde, mish-mash festival.

Flowing dresses, t-shirts, vaguely military outfits; you have it all.

Most curious of all—a fact I now come to understand is that some of them are carrying weapons. Swords and daggers line leather belts, while halberds and staves, gripped within the palms of decorated guardsmen, roam about.

Saint-Ys is an enclosed city, I’m aware, but such reverence for tradition still proves unusual. Certainly, back home, these weapons would be reserved for warriors of the Wulin, while everyday guards would carry firearms and the like. Could they possess some power that enables such weapons?

“Shall we have a break?”

Ysabeau turns right and heads towards a small shop with the words ‘Boulangerie Patisserie’ inscribed in gold. Under the warm, orange lamps, a selection of baked goods is on display, their extravagance made clear through tall glass windows. I follow her as she steps inside, lips poised to speech.

“Ooh, hello, Madame Ysabeau,” the store manager opens, “how are you doing?”

“Just exceptional, Ottilie. You couldn’t imagine. I’ve not one but two servants to vex and beat now.”

“Haha. Then all is well.”

The two end their small talk there. Short as it was, the exchange still offers a lot to this unknowing tourist. By the store manager’s warmness, I can tell Madame Ysabeau must either be a frequent customer or well-liked around these parts.

As if acknowledging that very fact, the lady turns to me, her smile even brighter than before.

“Please feel free to choose a few pastries,” she says, twirling her two front ringlets. “Dinner will be late this evening, and I shan’t have you thinking me stingy, is that clear?”

Understanding her message, I point to a sign that reads, ‘pain au chocolat’ and ‘canelés de Bordeaux’.

“I’d like a pain au chocolat, canelés de Bordeaux and a ‘tradition’, please.”

Her last order eludes me. ‘Une tradition’ directly translates to ‘a tradition’, but obviously, she’s not asking for an inherited belief on a platter. I wonder as to its meaning, watching as the clerk stuffs several pastries into a paper bag, reaching for a baguette behind.

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“Merci.”

We walk into the afternoon shine. Ysabeau makes for a nearby bench, the sun reflecting off its green-tinted steel. The two of us settle, with Ysabeau sitting just a half-metre away.

“So long as you whisper, the chances of your identity being discovered are quite low.”

I lean into her ear. “What’s the difference between a traditional baguette and a normal one?”

“One is a superior product, meant for refined palates, while the other is chaff reserved for senseless tourists and the downtrodden,” saying this, Ysabeau turns to face me. “Now, which one are you?”

“We—”

“Choose your answer wisely. In France, we have a saying, ‘Those who betray the Republic are scum, but those who eat poorly are worse than scum.’”

“Really?”

“Indeed, my far eastern friend. Ever heard of the Hundred Years’ War? For a century, my motherland has fought against English barbarians, and for what purpose?”

“Because their food is bad?”

My answer seems kind of ridiculous, but why else would Ysabeau reference this war otherwise?

“Precisely. Therefore, think of the baguette as a microcosm; a small, albeit noteworthy insight into the world of geopolitics, and tell me your opinion of its taste.”

She hands me the arms-length baguette. I break a piece of the top, listening as it crackles like autumn leaves underfoot. Up close, the smell envelops me like a warm blanket, with hints of sweetness, yeast, and milk.

Taking the piece whole, I slowly chew through it, feeling the crunch all the while.

“How is it?”

I swallow dryly.

“Like heaven made manifest.”

“Then answer. Are you a senseless, downtrodden tourist, or are you a man of fine-tuning?”

Ten seconds pass—and I come to a conclusion.

“It’s too soon to say. I don’t know what a ‘normal’ baguette tastes like, so I can’t say which one is better than the other.”

“A half-hearted answer, Yunluo.”

“He who knows others is wise; he who knows himself is enlightened. All things considered, I am an unaware tourist. So, it’d be silly to take my opinion as anything of note.”

Ysabeau does not reply. She takes the bread back and rips off a piece. In the meantime, I feast on the remaining treats, offering approving nods upon Ysabeau’s gaze. We sit here for some time, wallowing in the tranquil bustle of conversational locals.

Content to stay put, I find no reason to dispute the Lady’s decision. It’s only ten minutes in, however, that someone disturbs our peace.

“Madame de La Rue.”

A baritone voice shatters the quiet. Coming from the right, a well-dressed young man and his bodyguard approach. The former, a boy no older than twenty-two, wears an expression of apathy, made all the more picturesque by his black suit and cravat. While the latter, fashions only trousers and a t-shirt, a jarringly modern combo when compared to the sword at her hip.

“A-apologies, Madame, to disturb you out of the blue.”

His tone is lifeless. The way he carries himself—statuesque. When combined, his character comes off as a nervous, albeit dignified young man.

“It has been a long time coming since I’ve received a response, and well, I can’t help but feel your rather blatant lack of a reply is a sign of rejection…”

“Caulaincourt. If a lady replies to such an arrangement with utter silence and disregard, what does it tell you of her opinion? Better yet, what does it say of your character that she finds it appropriate to retort in such a manner?”

Her voice has a critical edge to it. I unconsciously straighten up; my body tensed as a result.

“How vexing.” He tilts his head quizzically. The shadow of a lime tree casts overhead, obscuring his pallid skin. “And here I was, compelled by goodwill to verify my otherwise ambiguous concerns.”

“And you’ve verified well. Having no doubt proven that your character is, indeed, held in poor taste. So, run along now. Exert yourself in the realm of books and mouldy dark corners, where you so aptly belong.”

Wow, she really just told him she hates his guts to his face!

And yet Caulaincourt says nothing. His expression is as it was from the start—empty and sickly. In all honesty, I have to say I’m pretty impressed by how calm he’s being.

“...Were I a man of greater exertion, I’d call into question that companion of yours. Then, provoke the situational equivalent of a taut bowstring and deconstruct your terribly frivolous character.”

“Alas, were we what we wished we were.”

“Indeed—a fact which I pray you’ll come to appreciate in due time.”

The nobleman takes his leave, walking with a slow, snail-like pace. His pink-haired companion follows, smirking as she shoots us one final look. Left to our whims, Ysabeau finds the chance to swear under her breath, mumbling something along the lines of ‘whoreson who feeds on shit.’