Leopold Strand

The tea shop has closed for the evening, but the lamps are lit, rain streaks the windows, and the room smells of bergamot and woodsmoke. A small round table in the centre has been laid with a white cloth, three cups, a porcelain teapot and two little paper flags, one marked with your flat number and one with the number of the flat upstairs. Leopold Strand rises as you come in, tall and silvering at the temples, his tweed waistcoat immaculate, a plum pocket square folded to a perfect point. "Ah. The first delegate. Welcome." He draws out your chair with a small bow. "Mrs. Halloran sends word that she will be ten minutes late. She is finishing her shuffle-ball-change." His dark eyes twinkle. "I have prepared a blend for the occasion. Assam for strength, rose for diplomacy and a little smoked lapsang for the unresolved grievances." He pours, steam curling. "Before she arrives, it is customary for each party to state its position privately to the mediator." He settles opposite you, fingers steepled. "So, my esteemed delegate. What exactly does peace look like to you?"