this just in  !  -- when the glowing moon reigns the night,  as each scattered leaf acts as trap upon some terrible, powerless other, let it be known that JANE BORDEAUX is not safe here.  it is well out of her practice,  and nimble fingers are no match for a choir of silence tonight,  nor a hardened survivor’s distinct hearing.   so he catches her.  soft hands scooping ripened fruits of his labour--- the man no longer in his slumber.  alas,  even the king of france’s property would be hers for the snatching with just the right amount of hunger.   &.  jane’s ??  oh,  it pangs.   so do her digits wrapped around her knife---  too tight,  too tight, woman!   but without time to readjust;   gliding towards him in lieu of that instinct to freeze,  her knife at his throat,  breathing raspy.  surely he cannot hear the fright.                “ now i'm warning you,  mister.  you don’t want to make one more move. “

𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐑 / boundwest’s pre-outlaw verse / @boundwest​

𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐧𝐣𝐨𝐲𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐬𝐨𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐮𝐝𝐞, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐚 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐚𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐬𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭 𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝𝐧'𝐭 𝐛𝐞 𝐛𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞. however, the task at hand is meant to be a solo mission. as it happens, his wish comes true. much to his horror. a door has opened and been shut downstairs, followed by slow footsteps. thereafter, that yell the rich let out when their fortunes have been subjected to an unsanctioned split with the lesser fortunate. john’s heard it a million times and then some. this time it’s feminine. young.

christ, dutch. o’ captain my captain said the couple’s kid would be gone with them! and here john is, standing in her room, stinking up the finery. the girl is sure to be older, if the books and clothes in the room are any indication, but john had spotted a exotic child’s toy during the gang’s earlier raid. he told arthur he was going back for it, ‘cause the strange trinket would be perfect for jack— he hopes it could be, anyway. goddamn himself for trying to be a family man.

he stuffs the tiny plaything in his satchel. the footsteps hasten as the girl ascends the staircase. john’s options dwindle as the seconds pass. he could make a run for it… and risk drawing attention. thankfully, the house is big enough that the yell got trapped within the walls, so as far as he knows, this could stay between him and the girl. if he tries a diplomatic approach.

the bedroom door is wide open, so he’s privy to the look of terror one makes when they find an intruder in their home. john straightens up. makes presentable as best he can the dirt, sweat, and grease he wears as a second skin.

❛  hello ma’am,  ❜  he takes off his hat and scopes the scene, as if it’s for the first time.  ❛  it would seem you ’n your old folks been robbed.  ❜

       jane’s just about the damned freest homebird you’ll ever see.  bound between victorian-steel gates,  it can’t be called a prison when she sleeps on satin sheets and bleeds gold. but when père favours something---  say,  his blossoming daughter held protected against the salivating wolves outside---  it doesn’t sound like wanting.  it's raised like demand.        &.   what’s a girl to do,  but oblige?   ...  and what of when he isn’t around?        ah,  how devilish the wind tastes in her hair.  the streets of saint denis aren’t always pleasant;   that much she gauges from her window pane,  and on those laboured strolls to the docks,  her tailor,  her barber,  all that encompasses the simple life, rich like chocolate.   the poor reek,  pavement colours crimson,  and must the beggars reach out to her skirt,  a blackened hand-print may tell the tale.        she’s no fool.  in her arms are the two friends accompanying her on the damp streets to the theatre.  her accomplices in this crime !!   and once the curtain’s dusting the ground  &.  rounds of the rich folk are exiting the lobby,  they hold each other close ‘till she’s dropped off home first.       back to safety.       or what ought to be...      with the door closed behind her,  jane takes her time.  heels that click with slower resistance than a clock-hand’s timely tick.  making her way to the staircase----  &.  something strikes.  she doesn’t-- at first-   make note of what’s missing.  rather,  what’s bred in her absence.  a set of boot-prints,  soil and mud sinking into lavish timbre with no sympathy.  and then she’s screaming,  arising to the chaos somebody has tossed her into.     a wiser woman would turn her back and flee from devastation.   &.  she’s intelligent in some ways,  but not in these ones.  for one,  she doesn’t expect a crook to linger about his crime-scene.  and another,   a fashioned woman must check her goods are in order.  so jane ends up entirely where she ought NOT to be.  the belly of the beast.    she arrives with a frown,  skirt distressed as fists ball at the sides.  fear may cripple some.  jane runs on the mere adrenaline of it...  her first mistake.                      “    WHAT are you doing in my room?  “   without patience to meet his pleasantry, without a developed sense of danger,   green eyes burn in fear and in rage.   now it burns a hole in the hat pressed awfully close to his chest.   “  you wouldn’t be hiding anything in there, would you mister?  “