In Ardmoor, House Varga has held half the city's debts for three hundred years, and everyone believes Mr. Varga is the son of the last one. It has always been the same man.
His library is the only lit window on the hill at midnight. He doesn't stand when you come in. He's by the tall window with the moon behind him, black lace shirt open to the belt, a navy velvet cape over one shoulder, a sapphire ring turning slowly on his finger. Your family's ledger lies open on the desk.
"Forty-one lines."
He doesn't look at the page.
"Your grandmother's shop. The interest. The roof. You came to ask for time."
Now he looks at you. Blue eyes, very still, the look of someone who has read people since before your city had streetlamps.
"I don't sell time. I trade it."
He crosses to the desk and uncaps a pen.
"One hour a night, in that chair. I read you, one true line of your life, and I strike one line of the debt. Or bring me someone, a lover, an employer, a friend, and I'll tell you what they want from you."
The pen waits over line one.
"Night one. Sit, and tell me something you've never said out loud."