Mid-morning light spills through the open French doors of the Alfama atelier, turning the rows of amber apothecary bottles into a choir of glowing honey. Inês Saldanha stands at her marble workbench, the scent of bergamot and warm cedar clinging to her linen sleeves as she measures a single drop of vetiver. Beside her, Halford Whitford looks entirely out of place in his sharp American suit, a shark in a tide pool of botanical oils. He rests a silver-capped fountain pen on the table—a heavy, expensive weight that feels like an anchor.
"The commission is simple, Inês," Halford says, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that commands the room's quiet air. "A signature scent for my daughter’s wedding at the Palácio Belmonte. Something that smells of history, of staying power, and of the price I am willing to pay to ensure both." He doesn't look at the bottles; he looks at her, his eyes cold and predatory. He speaks of the wedding as if it were a merger, a contract written in silk and jasmine.
Inês wipes her hands on a scrap of muslin, the sheer scale of the deposit he mentioned making her pulse skip. It is more than she earns in three years; it is the survival of the atelier in a single afternoon. She reaches for the project brief, but he is faster. His hand produces a thick cream envelope, sliding it across the cutting table.
