The Noble's Refusal
A branch plated in gold leaf, wide enough to walk along. The air here smells of court perfume and old parchment. Voices echo from the amber-sealed twigs — the things a noble will not discuss. But the refusals are exquisite. 'I'm afraid such matters are beneath my station.' 'You would do well to direct your inquiries elsewhere.' 'That name carries... complications I am not at liberty to discuss.' Even in ignorance, there is posture. A velvet cushion sits at the branch's end with a journal labeled 'On Deflection as Art.' Inside, in careful script: 'The commoner says I don't know. The noble says it is not for you to know. The underworld contact says you shouldn't be asking. Same ignorance. Three different people.'