Re: The Thief/The Flibbertigibbet
He didn’t think he smelled like anything, but that was the careless indifference of a man who hadn’t time to think about these things. Too busy lining his pockets to fancy a sachet of lavender tucked into his belt, or whatever it was that the rococo flamboyants did when their footmen dressed them in the mornings. Up close, he smelled like the Palmolive shaving cream that he’d used that morning. From a distance it was the scorch of clove cigars.
He dropped the petticoat so that it floated down to the floor of the baggage cart in a ruffle of ivory tatting, then kicked it aside as he moved to the next row. Here, then, was a beast of a bounty: a steamer trunk made of polished pine, wrapped in leather as soft as the silk of the lost shoe in question. Ezra pulled a set of pins from his breast pocket and crouched in front of the trunk in order to slide them into the locking mechanism, fiddling with them like it was second nature. He had to go by feel, that was the way to do it right and do it quick. Since he didn’t need to see what he was doing, he was able to watch the woman’s hobbling path to a trunk of her own selection. His smile never faded, just dimpled with good-natured curiosity.
“Well? Go on. Tell me what sort of type I am, then.”