11-22-2019, 10:58 PM
The Ireland fellow was relatively quiet in the water closet. No splash of the toilet, nor telltale foul odors … though if the cobbler were keen on pausing, he might catch this and that through thin walls. The quiet, muted jostle of a cabinet; the shift of clothing as it brushed floor and rose – he had not, after all, shed his jacket with his hat.
Aslan paused to collect his thoughts, hands sliding over wood in search of any hidden panels. Hardly the typical case – riches hidden underneath a loose floorboard, or an elaborate trapdoor. Especially not on a second floor. But he had read enough penny dreadfuls as a boy to harbor a small hope of one day, one day finding something truly exciting.
Preferably jewels rather than bodies.
No sooner did he entertain the thought of ill-retrieved, ill-gotten goods (what? the cycle of life – nothing more, nothing less) than did he feel the shudder through his feet of a downstairs door opening. He had dawdled. He had dawdled, and could he fit out that window? Tight squeeze. The footsteps sounded heavy – more knife-wielding cobbler-sized than British Turk-sized.
“Precious jewel!”
If that robber had chosen this moment to lug in a cache of actual valuables, this was about to be the riskiest day of Aslan’s life. He couldn’t help himself. He held his breath lest it so much as dampen a single syllable through the door, and pressed his ear to where edge met latch but still cracked space enough for light.
Was the cobbler in the habit of hiding, too? He supposed height did not scare those close into behaving after all. Fools back in...? – but alas. The cobbler was smarter than whoever his ‘precious’. It would be charming, were it not so inconvenient.
“Properr gaysts bring booze orr wom’n.”
According to old Warwick, anyway. He may not have known his head from his arse about gold rushes, but he seemed especially discerning about who did and didn’t maul his prick in their mouths.
Alright. Maybe Warwick hadn’t been the best source of guest etiquette, either.
The door swung open, and Mr. Ireland’s hands were behind his back as he stepped out.
“Loo’s like th’rain’s le’ oop,” he said blithely, regardless of the... brother’s? friend’s? actual state. “Canna say’m in th’habbet oo’ tempting fate.”
Even if it were true.
Aslan paused to collect his thoughts, hands sliding over wood in search of any hidden panels. Hardly the typical case – riches hidden underneath a loose floorboard, or an elaborate trapdoor. Especially not on a second floor. But he had read enough penny dreadfuls as a boy to harbor a small hope of one day, one day finding something truly exciting.
Preferably jewels rather than bodies.
No sooner did he entertain the thought of ill-retrieved, ill-gotten goods (what? the cycle of life – nothing more, nothing less) than did he feel the shudder through his feet of a downstairs door opening. He had dawdled. He had dawdled, and could he fit out that window? Tight squeeze. The footsteps sounded heavy – more knife-wielding cobbler-sized than British Turk-sized.
“Precious jewel!”
If that robber had chosen this moment to lug in a cache of actual valuables, this was about to be the riskiest day of Aslan’s life. He couldn’t help himself. He held his breath lest it so much as dampen a single syllable through the door, and pressed his ear to where edge met latch but still cracked space enough for light.
Was the cobbler in the habit of hiding, too? He supposed height did not scare those close into behaving after all. Fools back in...? – but alas. The cobbler was smarter than whoever his ‘precious’. It would be charming, were it not so inconvenient.
“Properr gaysts bring booze orr wom’n.”
According to old Warwick, anyway. He may not have known his head from his arse about gold rushes, but he seemed especially discerning about who did and didn’t maul his prick in their mouths.
Alright. Maybe Warwick hadn’t been the best source of guest etiquette, either.
The door swung open, and Mr. Ireland’s hands were behind his back as he stepped out.
“Loo’s like th’rain’s le’ oop,” he said blithely, regardless of the... brother’s? friend’s? actual state. “Canna say’m in th’habbet oo’ tempting fate.”
Even if it were true.
