Letting. That wasn’t ominous, no sir. His heart raced, and he could practically smell the impending blood in the air. Aslan’s, more likely – but if he stayed in close, he had a better chance of a killing blow...

Precious jewel. Jules. No major heist to pull off tonight, then – just the great escape of weaseling out of this alive. His father named Aslan for strength and for bravery, yet here he was: like a passing vole through stronger lions’ plains.

“Y’too kind,” Gavin said shortly with a smile that did not meet his eyes, non-cane hand in his pocket once more.

Bohea. He would not have heard the end of it had he dared to bring mere bohea home. It was practical, and it was what a man like Aslan could afford without having to reuse and reuse to justify the daily habit. Sometimes, he covertly salvaged Nisa’s remnants when the work ran dry.

There was no change in his posture when the behemoth approached – but only because he was already wound up like a coil. There was a fraction of a second where his body naturally resisted manhandling – a small but deeply embedded rock against a harsh river. Then, like a leaf rolling and flipping in the wind, Gavin stumbled to where he was driven.

Jules looked like Aslan felt whenever Nisa demanded a new maid, and he gave an instant sympathetic raise of his brows. He pulled out the chair that put Jules to his left and rested his cane on the edge of the table, then drew his seat in. He was close enough that he could feel warmth … close enough to be considered inappropriate, but not so close as to actually touch.

“Joos’sugarr, thankya,” he said, quietly studying a blue flower on the teacup.

Stolen? Maybe, maybe not. They matched.

“Gau’d’ner,” he answered after a brief pause.

Originally, he’d planned to lure whoever the thief was onto his employer’s estate with a far more grandiose story. Snatch him red-handed. But clearly, one of these bastards had to have thoughts in his head. Fascinating, certainly ... but also ultimately terrible for Aslan’s bottom line.

“Beau’if’l place ifnae it paid be’er.” He cracked his neck to the side and settled back in his seat. “An’ whot d’fines you, Misterr … Asa?”

Gardener? Well, it was a good enough profession, wasn't it? Jules rasied a skeptical eyebrow, though he had nothing to be skeptical about, truly. Didn't he? A simple gardener come to have his footwear fixed up, nothing unusual about that. Trudging through some rich fellow's fancy grounds day in, day out was bound to leave a pair of shoes wanting a bit of attention. And yet, as reasonable an answer as it was, Jules couldn't help but take a small sip of hot tea, pursing his lips to blow in manner seemingly too delicate for a man with a body made thick and hardened by decades of labor.

"A gardener?" Asa replied, dark eyes twinkling. Jules could already feel the tension in his gut begin to grow.

"Oy, me, I don't do much but help out my dear old brother, you understand," the younger brother laughed, offering Jules's guest his appropriately sugared tea. "Still finding my place in the world, searching out that definition of mine, you see. But you, Mr Ireland, you've found a nice profession beautifying a blessed man's shrubbery collection, have you? Very impressive, indeed."


Impressive was certainly an interesting choice of words, Jules thought. He cleared his throat, hoping to interrupt Asa's runaway conversational train, but such subtleties were lost on the younger Everett.

"You work for one of the lovely families on the coast?" Asa pried. Surely anyone with the means to afford a gardener was just well off enough to invite Asa's attention. He'd been planning on paying a visit to at least one of those oustentatious seaside manors soon enough, but if he could make a friend on the inside? Well, all the better.

The older Everett's ears pricked up. As unfond he was of his brother's prying, he had to admit curiosity ate at him with a voracious appetite. 

"You've been working as a gardener long, Mr Ireland?" Jules added on. Despite the odd attire and cane, the stranger didn't appear to be all that aged, perhaps not any older than Asa. 

"I'm sure once my lovely brother has finished spiffin' up those shoes of yours, he'd be happy to see some of your work," Asa added. "Few sights more lovely than a nicely trimmed rose bush."

The shoes were decades out of fashion. They seemed more dress shoe than workman’s boot, though...

For all that Asa seemed riveted by Mr. Ireland’s modest, easy-to-believe but utterly conveniently-located-for-burglary life … dark eyes shifted to Jules as he exhaled over his tea.

“Joos a gaudner, aye.”

The more Asa weaved poetry about helping his dear old brother out, the more Aslan thought of Nisa. Doting. Concerned. Capable of single-handedly upturning each and every life around her with nary a second thought to it.

He nodded along with affected sympathy and understanding, willing himself not to glance at the ‘bigger’ threat, much as Jules’ little brother dwarfed him.

“Oh, aye?” he laughed, though the smile was sharper than he’d intended. “Swear m’broo’err’s best day oo’is life were when I foond me own way.”

If only. If only.

His father used to hire a gardener in the better months. A neighbor boy who had never quite taken to the stables, and so Baba would graciously put some coin toward a tidy little flowerbed out front.

“Aaaye, life-loong dream,” he went along cheerily with teeth that gleamed. “Pooshin’ deyrrt ferra buncha rich coonts.”

He nodded his head at Asa’s further inquiry with a hard to read look.

“They soommer aylsewhere, th’mad lads. Quyitt enoogh.”

And then Jules was probing his story, and not the potential site that sounded – no, that was too good to be true. Aslan let one sharp exhale across his tea, rippling over the bohea. His lips remained pursed a second too long, dark eyes cast up on his host like a snake contemplating a moose.

“Loong enoogh,” he said, tone meandering, knee absently bumping Jules’ under the table.

Again, he was all cheer and veneer to Asa’s recommendations.

“Soome loveleh booshes ‘boot th’vinya’d,” he agreed to Asa, then leaned in against Jules with his elbow knocking his … seemingly companionably, despite their short acquaintance.

“Love to take you out some time,” he muttered quiet and low with a much sharper smile to Jules … and did that sound substantially more … British?

Then Mr. Ireland was taking a draw of his tea, placid as a lake.

"Elsewhere?" Asa laughed, practically choking on his tea (heaps of sugar, plenty of milk), spewing a few warm droplets back into his cup. "Your employers live on a lovely bit of land like Whitby and they summer elsewhere? What could be better than here?" 

Oh, plenty of places, I imagine, Jules thought solemnly, sipping slowly. The older Everett brother had often fantasized about travelling elsewhere. Paris. Rome. Cairo. Hong Kong. Anywhere but the misty, often dreary coasts of his native England. Whitby offered them somewhere other than the dirty streets of London to call their home, and Asa was always looking for an oppotunity to better their fortune. Afterall, where would an innocuous English cobbler such as Jules Everett discover enough gold and riches to travel the world so lavishly? Quite the thought.

Jules did not bother to stifle the chuckle that arose at Gavin's colorful language. Asa's eyes continued to twinkle excitedly as the gardener continued to speak. "Workin' yourself to the bone for a gaggle o' rich cunts is quite the life, isn't it? We get more than a few huffin' at our door now and again," Jules said, tipping his head in Gavin's direction as a light sign of comraderie. 

As Asa continued to prod not-so-subtlely, questioning just how empty Gavin's employers' property currently was, Jules felt a spark rush through his body as Gavin's knee brushed against his. Odd feeling, that. Jules clenched his jaw, lips tight and hidden beneath his mustache, behind his tea cup. Surely that was little more than a polite accident. The table wasn't expansive, afterall. A knee or two were bound to knock once in a while. 

As easy as it was to shrug away their brushing knees, Jules couldn't deny the warmth against his arm as Gavin leaned against him. Beneath the oddities, Gavin Ireland was quite handsome, truly. But Gavin's visage was hardly the most interesting thing about him. As the younger man began to speak, the thick accent seemed to slough away, leaving a melodic voice with a distinct British lilt. 

Jules cleared his throat and set down his cup, eyes looking down at the table. Quite an interesting offer if there ever was one. 

"Mr Ireland," he began, looking up to take a good, long look at his guest once more. An anomaly, a mystery. Intriguing. "We've taken up enough of your time, haven't we? Sounds like the rain has let up a bit outside; at the very least, I don't hear the shutters banging in the storm." 

He stood, casually waving away a stern look from his younger brother, who clearly intended to ask the gardener more questions about his employers' estate. "Why don't you come back tomorrow morning and we can get started on your shoes. Say, nine o'clock about? We can discuss the work more... initimately, if you like." It'd be a good opportunity to shoo Asa out the place, give Jules an chance to figure out just what this "gardener" was truly about. He felt the weight of his knife in his pocket, decided he'd continue to keep it on his person for their meeting tomorrow. Just in case.

"Please. Come tomorrow," he repeated earnestly.