THE ATTIC | EARLY EVENING
Papers written in a hand he already knew.
Was there a lingering caution about visiting The Attic now, now that the blond gunman was aware of what Resha's apprentice was capable of? What that passive was capable of? A little, but the galdor was always full of a healthy dose of caution. Except when he wasn't. It was after hours, anyway. This was important, and the Taxman was impatient when it came to tying up loose ends.
Hardly anyone was out in this weather at this house after the sun had set hours ago, the streets made of ice and slush. The gutters frozen. The snow fat-flaked and heavy, clinging to fair eyelashes and melting on warm, sea-worn features. From the top of one boot sparkled the opalescent handle of a knife—the knife that had been shoved into his guts a few weeks prior—and at his hip, as always, was his well-loved pistol. Because, this was the Harbor and this was the life he'd chosen ... even if he was just going to chat.
Or something.
Relentlessly hungry to get to the bottom of this Hessean gang business, to watch every single one of the tanned, freckled luggers bleed out at his feet for nearly murdering him and slandering his King in the process, Corwynn had taken today for himself. For research. He'd just have to endure the dark-haired young man with his sharp, damaged ego and more than just slightly uncomfortable diablerie to get the work done. At least he was easy on the eyes—Circle forbid if the pompous creature had been born any uglier than his attitude.
It was a kindness, really. And one Cor was the type to ... appreciate.
Crystalline gaze wandered over the sign, the bookstore perhaps closed but the King's business never one to bother with such formalities. Well, to be fair, it was his personal business tonight. While Silas had, of course, been reasonably concerned that his favorite gunman had almost been gutted in the Black Dove in front of a bunch of onlookers, he didn't have time to waste on petty vengeance when there were plenty of bigger predators like the Drain attempting to destroy what they'd built together for the Bad Brothers and the economy of the Six Kingdoms.
It was really only because he'd been raised a galdor with actual manners that the blond gunman even knocked first before curling four fingers of his right hand around the handle, calloused knuckles rapping on wet wood, shoulder leaning against cold brick, clearing his throat in a cloud of hot breath,
"Corwynn here. A bit of an after hours request, if you don't mind." The baritone of his voice indicated that he didn't care of anyone minded, blue eyes scanning the street while he hovered, cautious, while he nudged at the door, the walk from Sherry's Peninsula all the way here long and chilly enough to add a sharpness to his impatience.
If the shop wasn't locked, he'd let himself in without further warning, pausing to kick snow from his boots in the foyer and tug the cap from his short-cropped blond curls, shoving is wet shape into a pocket and looking around at book spines and shelves. Fingers would begin at buttons of his coat and loosen the scarf while he crossed the room and tossed the leather satchel of bundled papers on the counter like he deserved immediate customer service, announcing without fanfare,
"Just a few questions. That's all."