Grace stood in front of the polished gate blocking off a French Chateau. The roof stood out on the chateau, like a uniform on a boarding school boy, stuffy and faded. She pressed a red button on a box fastened to the gate pole and waited for a voice.
"Welcome to the Rhyhorn Riding Institute. Who may I be speaking with?"
"Grace Gabena."
"Grace Gabena, hmmm," said the voice, in a tone laced with gold "Well, you've certainly come a long way. Right this way."
The wide gate swung open.
"Welcome back, Grace."
A man marked the ledger on his desk, scanning the documents with eyes like a razor. He reached for the glass of cognac on his bureau and raised it to his lips, before he heard a knock on his door
"Master Portridge, it seems you have a visitor who wishes to speak with you," said a servant, poking his head through the door.
"Pierre, I'm a little preoccupied right now," the man said, not removing his attention from the sheets in his hand. He raised the glass to his lips again, before continuing "Tell them to come back another time if it's important. I'm reviewing some financial matters."
"Of course, sir. In any case, this visitor said that you'd know them by name."
"Is that so?" The man leaned into his chair and looked at Pierre suspiciously, "It's not that banker that came over from Lumiose the previous week, is it?"
"No, sir."
"The Rhyhorn breeder?"
"No, sir."
"The tax official?"
"No, sir."
"Well then who is it? Who could be so important as to come unannounced? They have a name don't they?"
"Grace Gabena, sir."
The man began rubbing his chin, as if calculating his next move carefully.
"I see. Well, let her in, Pierre. I don't have all day."
Two knocks came on the door.
"Yes, come in already. You've already wasted enough of my time."
"I can open the door for myself."
Grace turned the knob and forced the door open.
"Madame, please. That doorknob is an antique."
"Pierre, it's alright," said the man behind the desk, signaling with the brush of his hand. "Leave the door closed."
"Yes, master."
Grace dropped her purse on the pedestal desk, and leaned back into the chair nonchalantly. She looked around the office at the bookcase, the era paintings and the statesman bust.
"Nice place you got. Is this where all my tax dollars go?" .
"Did you really come all this way to berate me or is there something of genuine importance you'd like to discuss," said Portridge, sharpening his brow.
"Yes. I have some business to take care of."
"Well, then, get on with it already. If this is about that offer I gave you-and a very generous offer at that-I thought I made it clear that it's always been available. You didn't have to barge into my office."
"No."
"No, what?"
"This isn't about offering me a job. This is family business."
"I see. Well if there's any time you'd show yourself, it might as well be now rather than later." Portridge scrutinized the purse lying distastefully on his desk, then glanced back at Grace. "Where exactly have you been? You haven't been in the papers. You haven't raced in the past eleven years. Last I recall you left with that boy-and not just any boy either. He was one of my most promising riders, well, barring yourself."
"Had a family."
"And the father is-"
"You already said." Grace continued to stare into the corner of the room. "He doesn't deserve it though."
"I see. He left you and your daughter didn't he?"
"Yep. Didn't even say goodbye-to me or her."
"That's a terrible shame. Honor was paramount to every lesson I taught my students-even above Rhyhorn Riding. In any case, is this somehow related to your visit. Otherwise why else would you show up unexpected."
Grace stared down into her lap, pensively.
"Not exactly."
"Alright then. I think I see where this is going. You want your daughter to have the same opportunities that you had as a rider. Grace I think you know me well enough by now to know that I don't blindly admit students based on personal favors. But I'll tell you what? I'm having an exhibition in a week and I'm hoping to see both you and your daughter."