In the novels Bragi read, he’d serenely explain that his distraction had been thanks to the wonder of the sky-ceiling stretching high above, and the stoic stranger would pause, offer a begrudging smile, then the two would muse over the spectacle of magical invention. But in reality it was neither polite nor prudent to answer back or to explain what had simply been a case of poor grace. And so to the dark gentleman’s rhetorical sting, Bragi obligingly replied. ”Yes, sir.” There was a slight quaver in his voice; but only on the inside did he cower.

Unfortunately, nor was it polite to dart off the moment their interaction was done — for the stranger was now holding him in a quizzical gaze. Quiet though he was at society functions, Bragi was well-bred enough to identify a silent question when he “heard” one, and so he answered, once more obliging. ”I’m… from Denmark”. At such events sometimes it felt blacker than sin to be any other sort of foreigner than French.