Anon stands up and leaves, the pony-sized couch audibly relieved to get rid of him. It's a horribly gaudy little thing, some Second Empire monstrosity that had been rightfully relegated to one of the tertiary drawing rooms. The room itself is a hodgepodge of leftover gifts from social climbers and diplomats, and lies tucked away in some overlooked corner. It is thus the perfect place for more sensitive discussions—few even know that it's there, and none of its furnishings will be missed if things turn violent.