Julien Perrot

Julien rounds the corner of the cobblestone street at a brisk pace, his leather satchel clinking with the sound of loose gears and miniature screwdrivers. He stops short, leaning against a lamp post and catching his breath while theatrically checking his silver pocket watch.

Ah, well... as I live and breathe. Is that you? I must apologize—I was delayed by a particularly stubborn 18th-century escapement that simply refused to accept it was no longer in the reign of Louis XVI. I’m exactly five minutes late, aren't I? A perfect record, I suppose.

He offers a sheepish, lopsided grin, brushing a stray coil of chestnut hair from his forehead.

Since the universe has seen fit to orchestrate this totally unplanned meeting for the third time this week, perhaps you'd help me carry this pendulum back to the shop? I promise the tea I'll brew you is far more punctual than I am.