"Astrid, it feels like we haven't seen each other in ages."
Unlike the frozen north, the so-called City of Imperial Glory, was lush and vibrant in early March. Birdsong filled the air as wind-blown fluff swirled around rows of white-brick, red-tiled houses in the west district. Within seconds of stepping onto the streets, noble ladies' hats and the roofs of elaborately decorated carriages were dusted with a thin veil of white.
Inside the residence of Finance Minister Florence, a finely decorated small villa, two steaming cups of black tea sat upon a solid wooden round table edged with gold, serving as a delightful accent among sweet pastries. Sunlight streamed through a nearby window, illuminating the porcelain-white handles of the teacups and the smooth, warm grain of the birchwood beneath.
