"There's not," Carpathia laughed. The wine in her glass made a deep red whirlpool in the center as she swirled it. There was an unkind edge to her smile, and the shake of her head was dismissive. "It's France, and there just aren't." Her companion disagreed, but then he would. Desperate for a sale, he was sure he could convince her of the impossible.
Carpathia knew better. No matter how impassioned his speech or desperate his plea, because that's all he was; desperate.
"Listen, I'm no greenwand." She reminded him, swallowing half her glass and setting it down bluntly on the table. "You'll never make me believe there's a thunderbird making water in the French countryside, you just won't. And I'm not risking a mugging by wayward soldier types to check it out." And she wasn't paying him a damn galleon for bullshit information either.
"Now if that's all, sweets, I've got actual business to attend to." Sneering, Carpathia pushed her chair back abruptly, the wrought iron feet loud on the paving stones of the little terrace they were lunching on. "Good day, Fishboots." And good riddance. Opening her umbrella, she stepped out into the spring shower and turned toward the nicer part of town. This side was just too seedy, even for her. Tricksters, the whole lot of them.
Anyway, she knew a man over on the upper up that had hippogriff eggs.