Aslan paced his eating to match Nisa’s, finishing his bowl within the same second.

“Certainly,” he answered, clasping his hands before himself under the table and watching her through the spoon’s reflection rather than directly.

Just as well. He avoided dead men’s jackets by daylight – Baba’s aside.

If Aslan believed for a second that she actually meant some sort of work – as a governess, perhaps, or something that didn’t involve rampant murder – then he might have felt differently about those words. Work was for middle class men, and in her head they were still seated with their peers.

He stood, pushed in their chairs. Kept his body facing her, even if he watched her from the side more than front-on.

“A woman of your class, and your beauty, should not have to resort to work,” Aslan said, leaning in the doorway and crossing his arms.

Her neurotic vanity was an asset on the marriage market, he knew that much.

“Beg my pardon, but … what would you think of a widower? It is your age men of wealth prefer, and it could be an ideal arrangement for both of you.”

‘You’ll have an excuse for his untimely death,’ he meant.