Clare hadn't intended to engage with anybody tonight - or at the very least that was what she told herself. She pawed around the edges, observed, immersed without taking part. But the opening monologue of Alfred Pennyworth over there caught her attention. His persnickety outsides gave way so quickly that the next moment he was crouching in his well-tailored suit - well, she would be lying if she said that wasn't endearing.
Besides, people with hair that tidy never petted a cat's fur in the wrong direction.
But considering the things that she had seen - and heard and smelled - since arriving at the Cirque, it was with real caution that the cat began to emerge from below Ric's stairs. By the time she deigned to take in the scent of his hand she was still poised to bolt if it came to that.
His hands smelled of ink and tealeaves and soap, and there was not a speck of dirt under his well-kept nails. She didn't know a single man like him in her previous life. The boys always smelled of gunpowder and motor oil, tobacco and blood and sweat and money. She decided that he was refreshing, and safe since he wasn't at all likely to remind her of home.
She moved the rest of the way out from beneath the stairs, circled in place, and then bumped his hand with her head. Alright, Alfred, let's see if you're good with those pretty hands.