You gather some of your medical supplies and fashion alchemical glassware out of mugs and jars. This isn't quite your area of expertise, but you think you could find a book somewhere in your Personal Library to help you with the recipes. Besides, you've seen a certain elegant lady do it plenty of times. You almost drop your mortar and pestle as you think about her. Light, airy giggles drift through your mind and make your wrists weak. You finally understand how your men felt when they swooned over such courtly ladies.

You hear a knock at your door. Thinking it to be Pascale, you go to open it - and your jaw drops to the floor.

It is indeed her, but not at all how you expected.

Clad in her corset and garters only, she stands before you in all her statuesque glory, wearing barely anything but a smile. She looks like a sculpture, like something crafted from the mind of an artistic genius. You feel your face grow redder than a roma tomato.

“Si-signora, I… I thought we were, o-o-oh dear…” Ever the gentleman, you fumble around for something to drape over her before asking any more questions, if they should even be asked. But as you turn, she leans forward and presses a finger to your lips. Her giggle lights the tips of your ears on fire and then, in the most saccharine of voices, she says:

“No one will ever believe you…” And as her face gets closer, it disintegrates into pink mist, smelling distinctly of flowers and faint disinfectant, the Signora's signature scent.

You fall back to the floor, completely bewildered at what you just saw. As you collect the few remaining pieces of your dignity off your dirt-laden floor, you see Pascale arrive at your door… again? But this time, she is fully clothed, and carrying a handful of vials in her hands. “Monsieur, are you quite alright?” You hurry up from the ground, and try to bow, holding out your hand as one greets a lady. As she places her hand in yours, and you lean forward to peck her knuckles in customary fashion, that cursed image pops back up into your head, causing you to wince as you pull away and descend into a particularly deep bow.

Luckily for you, the lady does not seem to have noticed anything awry. She curtseys and sets her vials down on the table. “I understand we may be making some ah… helpful assets for the upcoming battle today?” Pascale says, and you coud have sworn she just batted her eyelashes exactly like-

No. No. Whoever, whatever that siren was, you will not let it mess with your head. Not today.

“Oh yes, of course. I was thinking to make some firecrackers in case a few bright lights would make a good distraction,” “And to enjoy with our sparkling wine post victory, non?” She giggles. You sink awkwardly into your collar.

Why aren't you any better at this? Perhaps you've always been a little too focused on your job.

You start to set up the apparatus to make gunpowder, while Pascale helps grind ingredients on the other side of the small table in your Personal Library. You work while making pleasant conversation for a while, and Pascale tells you about Paris in her time, as well as her knowledge of various herbs and floral ingredients for her Alchemy.

She is definitely the more experienced out of you both, but you are not about to be left behind. You keep up with her using medical knowledge of your own time period. As she names poisons and ailments, you name their antidotes and curative methods.

As a field doctor, who have encountered men who have ingested all manner of substances. While you chat, you find yourself sieving a distillate over a jar. You begin to pour it but then, unexpectedly, Pascale reaches for you hand, “Ah, Monsieur, if I may…” she places her hand over yours, holding it up higher over the jar and giving it small swirls, “This method prevents bubbles from forming in the final solution. It makes for a much finer powder when baked dry.”

You flush redder and deeper than your grandmother's slow-cooked bolognaise. Pascale's hand on your own feels warm, and her scent exactly like flowers and disinfectant, and maybe a little talc as she comes close to you.

She looks up and with the realisation that your faces are barely a foot apart, steps back abruptly and turns away. “Monsieur, I am so sorry. I have overstepped.”

You try your best to stop sweating and reassure her that, “Signora, it is an absolute pleasure to have you coach me on a topic of which you are clearly a master. I appreciate all your guidance.” You cork the vial. “Monsieur Adamo…” Pascale places a gloved hand over her cheek and giggles, her pink lips parting ever so slightly. “As I have said before, it is nothing but a privilege to be in the presence of such-”

She smiles nervously, and you feel your heart tighten, absolutely lost for words. In this intimate space, with all your preparation, overthinking, and piling words atop words to suppress your inability to handle yourself in these situations, you blurt out:

“Il tuo sorriso è bellissimo, bella.” Then you sigh. How has this woman become such an undoing to a man who is able to function with just 3 limbs, and sleep after sleep full of nightmares? Pascale looks confused for a second and you realise that, in your haste, you may have spoken with too much of an accent for your words to be translated.

“Your smile! I meant, I meant your smile, Signora. It's, it's beautiful.” And it took my breath away.

The simplicity of the compliment brings an even wider, more relaxed smile to Pascale's delicate features. You feel a weight lifted off your shoulders. For all the wordiness and flair of courtship, you didn't expect your most natural thoughts to entice the most… sincere and wonderous response.

But when you think about it, perhaps it is not that surprising.