The Little Bird and the Thief
It is not often his gaze rises above him. The sky has nothing to offer but emptiness. A kind that reminds him of how empty his stomach often is. But tonight has ended well. A stomach full of lift bread, and enough mead to wet his tongue but little else. And perhaps it is simple boredom that has them drifting up. Or a simple passing fancy to look up at the stars. But which ever it might have been, it fades in the wake of what catches his sharp eyes.
Even in the dimness of the evening he can see her for what she is. He is no fool. That window belongs to the brothel. And yet there is something about the way she looks down at the street beneath her. A watchful, but distant sort of look; that almost makes him ponder what it is she is thinking. Why she watches what she does, what she looks at, why she is there at all. These hours are business hours, for many in Nassau, and by the sounds of laughter and other revelry pouring from the brothel doors across the road--there are many looking for company.
He shifts in his seat upon an empty barrel outside the closed shop at his back, his gaze fixated upon her. Hawk like and studying. A curiosity in her that he has not had in anything in a very long time.
{What is it that you look for?}
