Every great house has a nose, and ours is Céleste Whiskerton, a lilac point Birman of unimpeachable sensitivity. Céleste can identify 3,400 scents with her eyes closed, and has been known to detect a fish skin through a sealed envelope, a freezer door and a mild argument. She trained for nine years at the Academy of Nasal Arts, in a town we will not name.
She works, as the great ones do, from a velvet cushion in the laboratory, from which she issues verdicts in a single syllable. “Yes.” “No.” “Hmm.” Hmm is the most feared. It signals that a formula is competent and therefore beneath her. Visitors are asked to speak softly and to leave their lunch at the door. She will know.
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