I shall, my lord.

Reynaldo arrives in Paris. It has been a long journey. The trip from Denmark to France is not a short one and Reynaldo has had his patience tried by garrulous fellow passengers, ones with much greater status than himself to who he must smile politely and laugh at the appropriate pauses. Coaches have jostled him. He has not been able to read, either at night, in the dark, or during the day, with the constant motion. His stomach has given him some trouble and he is ready for a real rest in a real bed.
The inn is welcoming. Lights flicker and beckon the weary traveler to settle in and rest. The innkeeper pats him on the shoulder and points him to his room, while a gangly teenage boy picks up his bag for him.
Reynaldo makes his way up the stairs, then down the hallway, his feet sinking into the long rug that goes the length of it. He’s ready for sleep – and suddenly very grateful that his only responsibility tomorrow will be to hang out in a bar/café/pub, drink and talk with people. As he approaches his room, he sees a young woman coming out of another room, closing the door as quietly as she can, looking for all the world like she were attempting to sneak out without drawing attention to herself from a sleeping person inside.
She jumps a little when she sees Reynaldo and blushes, charmingly, he thinks. She does a little curtsy and nods at the boy with the bag, before scurrying quickly past him down the hall toward the stairs.

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