Maelstrom Crumb, private detective, pretended to check his pocketwatch as he stood near a booth, watching his mark some yards ahead out of the corner of his eye. He had always hated this sort of engagement, following people just for the sake of observation. It lacked artistry; there was nothing to puzzle out, and often, it yielded only the most mundane of details. But it paid, and, as Tempest was fond of reminding him, one could not pay the rent in puzzles, much though he might wish to try.

The mark rounded the corner, and so did he, a few second later, making a careful inventory of the useful details around him, should they become necessary.

Laundress. Could enter.

Dog, best avoided.

Not that the dog seemed particularly mean, but animals were dreadfully unpredictable, if one was not well acquainted with them. Not like people—people were far easier to read, likely because he was one.

Crates, to duck behind.

No sooner did Mael make this observation than it became necessary, albeit too late, with his mark turning to face him.

Awkwardly, he smiled back at them.