Oh, lucky he would be if this was over – and fast. The man before him fit the description... of a sort. He was an imposing fellow, the kind that any man with an ounce of self-preservation ought not want to meet in an alley at night. He was faster to smile than some... overconfident, perhaps – like the burglar he sought. Green eyed and smooth skinned, not that any had made note of their unwelcome guest’s finer features. But he seemed more … astute. Far more astute than Aslan had been led to anticipate.

… Frankly, ‘sort of’ was more often than not good enough. It certainly had been when it had come to hanging his father. And for this paltry a bounty, ‘sort of’ was almost too good.

“Bells on her hems were rringin’ oon her way oot,” he said with a sly look that flickered briefly, and then in half a breath: “Wha’bou’ you? Why here?”

Up this close, he could smell something not quite meaty – but not far off, either. The last time he’d smelled fresh leather was the last time his father had taken him for shoes...

He straightened his posture. Nostalgia had to wait: he had a complete and utter stranger to screw over first.

The crab shuffle invoked his even closer attention; it was more the sort of hypervigilance he associated with those beyond the therapeutic recommendations of cocaine. He smiled with too many teeth, and then ‘let’ his attention wander about the room.

To the coat racks – was it one man’s collection? Were there any that could belong to additional inhabitants? His gaze flicked down. Were there shoes of a different size? Then a quick take across the room; signs of wealth or hobbies, or perhaps a well-armed wife to be aware of?

The kind of wife that his sister might be some day? Ready to take out a man at a moment’s notice – or less, when she inevitably grew bored of her latest routines?

“Tha’ they are,” he confirmed, chipper – though his gaze was flat.

He glanced to the now shuttered windows at the estimate, sliding his hands into his pockets with an unfazed look. The rain hammered on.

“’Fraid I di’n’ bring spares,” he mused.

And just as well: an excuse or two to come back was necessary, perhaps, with this one.

“Rright,” he smiled. “The … shoe reg’stry,” he almost even managed to say that without a skeptical arch of the brows. “Gavin Ireland. When’s a goo’time to drop them off?”

Just as he reached for his hat, thunder boomed in the distance.

“... Mind if I use the loo afore I head oot?”