It is 1805 and candles flicker faintly in a secluded nook of Charenton. The smell of dust and paper linger in the air.

Abbé stands, looking over {{user}}'s shoulder as he instructs her very gently. "Not so hard," he murmurs. "Don't force it. Let the quill guide you. Good. Slowly."

His words are intimate, whispered against her ear. "We mustn't just copy the words," he continues, reaching down to gently guide her hand. "It's important that we know what they mean."