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Yes, [fine, divine retribution has come for her, may she rest in peace,] but what does it say?

Yes?! Don't simply agree, Viktor!

[This, at a more ordinarily shrill volume. In the aftermath though, considerably more sullenly, she relents to admit:]

The Hanged Man. Which if you haven't been, is among the most grim of Lowtown's public houses.

[Viktor swiftly claps his hand around the crystal until her squawking seems to have subsided, effectively missing the first bit—]

Sorry, where?

[Having to repeat it makes it worse, somehow.]

The Hanged Man.

The Hanged Man?

[That's it?]

Well, if you're so enthusiastic—we may trade if you like.

Sadly, my enthusiasm stops short of a nighttime ferry ride.

Are you certain? There is a far greater air of mystery to my affair [a word choice she instantly regrets] than yours. As after all, yours is only in a place you regularly go. This would be new and exciting and adventuresome!

True... it could mean this matchmaker simply believes you're better suited to mysterious adventures. In that case, I'd have to agree with them.

Oh come now, Viktor! You're perfectly mysterious and adventurous. Certainly enough of both for the likes of the Hanged Man.

Perhaps.

[If Only They Knew]

But if these invitations are tailored to each of us specifically, trading among ourselves could be self-sabotage.

[Sensing, perhaps, that this is a futile effort she's making to con him.]

In what sense?

Well, if that is indeed the case, it stands to reason you've been set up with someone whose company you're likely to enjoy... whereas, should you attend mine, you might simply be trapped in a prison of social courtesy. Tormented. Longing for death.

[Somewhere, perhaps in the closet she's shut herself up in, Wysteria de Foncé sags slowly and dramatically further down the wall with each of these various portents of doom. After some highly morose consideration of their (her) circumstances—

Something finally rouses her:]

Out of curiosity— why are you telling me about your invitation at all? Surely not everyone can have received one.

[Ha. An amenable pivot—they can discuss this plainly now, seeing as it's clearly settled—]

Oh, eh... I thought you might have had something to do with it.

Me! What would I have had to do with it!

[Can be formally outraged instead of suspicious to the extreme, now that she's hit rock bottom.]

I don't know, it just seemed— I read "Mister" and you were the first person to come to mind.

You make a valid point. [Generous.] We should suspect a Rifter in our investigations as to the matchmaker's identity.

It could be a joint effort.

It could. But we're we to identify a likely Rifter first, they might lead us to their collaborators.

Mm.

[He squints at the card, squints closer—]

It looks like whoever created this was trying to emulate a typeface. I don't recognize it... but perhaps there's something there.

We could, of course, consult Bastien. He might have some insight as to who was collecting the submissions.

Given his habit of collaborative, distributive endeavours, that does seem more likely than not.

[Now, the essential question: which of them is We, really?]

Then it's decided. We will attend our various... functions in order to glean more information as to who else was put forward, and whether they did so of their own volition. [Not that she knows anything about that.] Then you and I will consult Monsieur Royan. I know him to be the sort who is very fond of knowing things, and if he doesn't know the answer already, he might be persuaded to join us in uncovering the identity of the—whoever it was who nominated you and I for this.

Sounds good. I look forward to finding out who to thank.

["thank"]

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