The air in Director Haust's study was heavy with the mingled scents of pipe tobacco, beeswax polish, and old vellum. It was the kind of room that announced authority without raising its voice. Dark oak shelves climbed the walls, bowing slightly under the weight of leather-bound volumes—treatises on chemistry, navigation, political economy, and law. A tall window looked out toward the City of Hannover, where bare winter branches rattled faintly in the wind, their sound muffled by thick glass imported at great expense from Bohemia.
Francisco sat stiffly in the high-backed chair opposite the Director's desk. The chair was too large for him, designed for German professors and visiting ministers rather than young men from overseas colonies, and its carved arms pressed uncomfortably against his coat. He did not shift. He had learned early that visible discomfort was a weakness best hidden.
