The element of surprise was an important one, and so of course Aslan forewent it entirely. Instead, he had agreed to Jules' terms with only a sip of tea to hesitate. He might as well have come pre-tied with a 'stab me!' sign strapped about his neck. Was Aslan always this foolish? No. But did this impulsiveness happen rarely enough to stave off trouble? Well...
Sometimes life needed a little excitement ... and there was something titillating about a little, earnest, "please".
Besides, it would give him a chance to avoid his sister's latest rampage about their maid situation.
The clock tower had yet to toll nine, and yet already that cobbler shop-and-home was in his sights. His cane and mustache were the same as yesterday, though the shoes in question came in a box rather than on his feet ... though the box seemed small for the shoes. If one squinted, one could still make out a company name and "Harrowgate" on the cover.
These were not the shoes that belonged in that box - but the freshly shone boots with spats may well have been of similar make. A shoe for a stroll or a day off - not for mucking around in the dirt.
Torn between risking an early-morning encounter with his sister or actually having a plan, well, Aslan had made do in a rush.
It was times like these he wished he still had Baba's old pistol, much as he rested easier with it out of Nisa's reach. One day, perhaps, when he married her off and she didn't kill the bastard (or they didn't find the body and - Allah Allah - she sat a comfortable widow), he'd get a new one and increase his life expectancy by a grand old five years at this rate.
The men who got caught were usually idiots surrounded by more idiots. Jules was a diversion. A dangerous, sharp-eyed, knife-wielding diversion, but a diversion nonetheless. Besides, his father loved those old shoes. There was nothing he could do for Baba now, but at least he could have something left of him restored to their former glory.
He slowed his stroll to the door, checking his pocket watch. 8:58. Itched his wrist under his glove, took a quick stroll about the block as to not look too eager, and waited for the bell to toll.
'Gavin' rapped his knuckles on the door between the chimes, a cheery sort of morning ruckus under the looming gray sky.
Incidentally, there were the subtle tells of cane prints next to shoes in the dust of the road, quietly tattling on his earlier pacing.
This morning, the acrid stench of coffee was not covered up with whiskey, still fresh on his breath and his clothes. It was early, after all.
Sometimes life needed a little excitement ... and there was something titillating about a little, earnest, "please".
Besides, it would give him a chance to avoid his sister's latest rampage about their maid situation.
The clock tower had yet to toll nine, and yet already that cobbler shop-and-home was in his sights. His cane and mustache were the same as yesterday, though the shoes in question came in a box rather than on his feet ... though the box seemed small for the shoes. If one squinted, one could still make out a company name and "Harrowgate" on the cover.
These were not the shoes that belonged in that box - but the freshly shone boots with spats may well have been of similar make. A shoe for a stroll or a day off - not for mucking around in the dirt.
Torn between risking an early-morning encounter with his sister or actually having a plan, well, Aslan had made do in a rush.
It was times like these he wished he still had Baba's old pistol, much as he rested easier with it out of Nisa's reach. One day, perhaps, when he married her off and she didn't kill the bastard (or they didn't find the body and - Allah Allah - she sat a comfortable widow), he'd get a new one and increase his life expectancy by a grand old five years at this rate.
The men who got caught were usually idiots surrounded by more idiots. Jules was a diversion. A dangerous, sharp-eyed, knife-wielding diversion, but a diversion nonetheless. Besides, his father loved those old shoes. There was nothing he could do for Baba now, but at least he could have something left of him restored to their former glory.
He slowed his stroll to the door, checking his pocket watch. 8:58. Itched his wrist under his glove, took a quick stroll about the block as to not look too eager, and waited for the bell to toll.
'Gavin' rapped his knuckles on the door between the chimes, a cheery sort of morning ruckus under the looming gray sky.
Incidentally, there were the subtle tells of cane prints next to shoes in the dust of the road, quietly tattling on his earlier pacing.
This morning, the acrid stench of coffee was not covered up with whiskey, still fresh on his breath and his clothes. It was early, after all.
