One of the aforementioned need-to-finish-this pieces. Lemme see if I can make this, you know, not glum.
It takes real skill to get drunk on a Rhenish white, but Francesco di Buonaparte was managing, somehow. He’d drunk two bottles to my barely sipped glass — and Gefikst’s untouched one. Then again, I’d only poured our third companion (or conspirator) a glass for toasts, and the smell. Golems can appreciate a good bouquet, and a just-opened Riesling’s these days typically reeks like an alchemical processing plant. It’s a bit of an acquired taste, in other words, and one I had never seriously considered picking up.
They say that alcohol is excellent at extracting a substance’s essence; alas, in Buonaparte’s case, his inner nature was that of the jackass. I almost expected him to grow ears and a tail as he sourly contemplated me. Certainly he brayed like one. “I know why you are desperate to have me for this enterprise, Briton,” he slurred, making the word sound like a curse. “Why should I need to burden myself with your presence?”
Because you have no choice, I thought, and half-debated saying aloud. “Money, milord,” I told him instead. “Everyone needs it, everyone wants it, and I’m giving you a chance to get some of your birthright back.” I sipped more of the horrible wine. “Surely that’s worth a little burden, what-what?”