06-28-2022, 11:36 AM
Alexander Mason. Mr. Alexander Mason. Damn the man for having such a common name. Was he the ailing Alexander Mason, 89, looking for dirt on the woman who somehow managed to successfully divorce him? Alexander Mason, 50-something, who lost a duel and lived to tell and tell and tell? Was he from town, out of town, something in between? Any relation to the Masons with the corner store? The Mason with the oil paintings? What about that Gregory Mason who was always in and out of the constabulary? Was it even his real name?
Ugh. Only one way to find out.
The patter of fingers against leather stopped once he heard footsteps. Aslan lifted his head and peered, expressionless as the angels who stared solemnly past all these petty mortal affairs. Unlike the angels, however, Aslan looked straight at him. Practically into him. A gaze pale enough to draw stray moonlight in would meet eyes which seemed to suck the light out of the air itself, endless in their darkness.
Was the suit dark gray? Brown? Blue? It was hard to say in this lighting, but he had chosen a smidge lighter (and more than a smidge less concealing) than this Alexander Mason’s chosen garb – favored an overcoat that subtly accentuated his figure and brought him as close to the J. C. Leyendecker ideal that a tailored but nonetheless years-old wardrobe would permit.
Dark eyes catalogued Alexander openly from head to toe. What make were his clothes? What make was the man? How significant was his height advantage? Was he, too, armed with a freshly sharpened knife – or worse? He was far younger than Aslan would have expected. Fingers splayed across the stone cross as Aslan pushed himself to a straightened posture, like he had been waiting his turn against a wall at the pool table rather than for his client to show up and have a chat over some buried, dead bodies. If Alexander had been seeking polite company, after all, he assumed he would have met him in a polite place.
No shovel, at least.
“Not at all,” Aslan answered breezily.
He stepped forward, closing the distance between them easily – if a touch closer than necessary. Close enough that this Mason’s reach would not give him a reach advantage if he did intend something sinister, and yet far enough that he could still extend his hand for a plausibly polite handshake. A plausibly polite handshake he indeed did extend his hand for, though his gaze was too sharp to be called ‘friendly’.
“I should mention,” he added offhandedly, voice high and light to Alexander’s deep and dull, “that it is an expensive and a lengthy ordeal to have a body exhumed.”
Neither volunteering that he’d do it … nor implying that he wouldn’t, let alone on what legality he worked. Oh, the fine, fine lines between respectable and effective.
Ugh. Only one way to find out.
The patter of fingers against leather stopped once he heard footsteps. Aslan lifted his head and peered, expressionless as the angels who stared solemnly past all these petty mortal affairs. Unlike the angels, however, Aslan looked straight at him. Practically into him. A gaze pale enough to draw stray moonlight in would meet eyes which seemed to suck the light out of the air itself, endless in their darkness.
Was the suit dark gray? Brown? Blue? It was hard to say in this lighting, but he had chosen a smidge lighter (and more than a smidge less concealing) than this Alexander Mason’s chosen garb – favored an overcoat that subtly accentuated his figure and brought him as close to the J. C. Leyendecker ideal that a tailored but nonetheless years-old wardrobe would permit.
Dark eyes catalogued Alexander openly from head to toe. What make were his clothes? What make was the man? How significant was his height advantage? Was he, too, armed with a freshly sharpened knife – or worse? He was far younger than Aslan would have expected. Fingers splayed across the stone cross as Aslan pushed himself to a straightened posture, like he had been waiting his turn against a wall at the pool table rather than for his client to show up and have a chat over some buried, dead bodies. If Alexander had been seeking polite company, after all, he assumed he would have met him in a polite place.
No shovel, at least.
“Not at all,” Aslan answered breezily.
He stepped forward, closing the distance between them easily – if a touch closer than necessary. Close enough that this Mason’s reach would not give him a reach advantage if he did intend something sinister, and yet far enough that he could still extend his hand for a plausibly polite handshake. A plausibly polite handshake he indeed did extend his hand for, though his gaze was too sharp to be called ‘friendly’.
“I should mention,” he added offhandedly, voice high and light to Alexander’s deep and dull, “that it is an expensive and a lengthy ordeal to have a body exhumed.”
Neither volunteering that he’d do it … nor implying that he wouldn’t, let alone on what legality he worked. Oh, the fine, fine lines between respectable and effective.
