You could tell what she was thinking by the way she walked. Or Calvin could, anyway; maybe it was just him. She started off purposefully, heading somewhere she was keen to go, then she stopped herself and seemed to debate it. The way she paused there almost looked like there was something on the ground she was determined to step around, but she never looked down at the cobblestones. Changing her mind. From where to where? He ought to have been able to guess; he wanted to know what crossed her mind first when she left the house and what was an afterthought. He'd figure it out, once he got to know her better. Someday soon.
She laughed. This wasn't the same as the other two. He may have been walking behind her but he could already tell it hadn't affected her face in the same way. A small laugh, subdued, not meant to be overheard by anyone. A just-for-her laugh. He could already tell it would be harder to catch her at this one than the first one, so he'd have to keep on the alert if he wanted to see the way it made her eyes look. In the meantime he filed this away, the second in a collection of Saffron Whitby's distinctive types of laughter.
She stopped by the Three Broomsticks. Calvin's heart rate picked up, because there was no reasonable excuse for him to dally where he was; he was in front of a modiste's with corseted dresses on mannequins in the displays, so he could hardly pretend to be window shopping. He couldn't backtrack without drawing attention. The next shop that might have been a reasonable place to stop and look at the display was two storefronts down, and that would be too close to her. She wasn't guaranteed to notice him — there was nothing especially noteworthy about him, today or most days — but it was close enough to her that she might, and he didn't want that. This left only one option: he'd have to walk past her. Not too far, because he didn't know where she was going yet and he didn't want to accidentally head the wrong direction, but far enough to put a safe distance between them until he could stop and idle by a window.
He had to stop looking at her as he approached. She might not have noticed while he was still behind her, but the woman she was talking to would have. He dared only one glance just as he was passing her. They were still easily an arm's length away at least, but it was close enough for him to see the way the wisps of hair at her neck coiled above her scarf, close enough to watch the way her throat moved when she was preparing to speak, close enough to spot an ink stain on her sleeve, close enough to hear her said of course to the proprietress. He savored the musicality of the words when she said them. Of course.
And then he was past her, moving on to a shop he couldn't have cared less about and pretending to be interested in a flier they'd plastered on the doorpost. He could have read it twice over by the time she stopped her conversation with the innkeeper, but fortunately no one seemed inclined to pay him much attention. Saffron hurried along once she said her goodbyes, but of course he couldn't mimic that pace without drawing attention to himself. He turned away from the flier a beat and a half before she reached him, so that she overtook his leisurely pace as she walked by. Her scarf bounced behind her when she walked quickly.
She turned into a store, and he had a dilemma: to follow her in or not? It would be difficult to kill enough time on the street not to lose her when she came out again. He could make a circle of the downtown area, but then it was hit or miss whether he'd be back around the right time for her to have finished her errand. But if he went inside... well, that was risky. Small shop, crowded aisles, less space to go unnoticed. Which store was it? — Scrivenshaft's. He considered. Probably he wasn't going to learn any of her favorite things by following her in; probably this was something work related. Quills and parchments. Not worth the risk, he determined. Not yet, anyway. He knew so very little about her at the moment; when he could better predict what she was going to do, maybe he could chance being in the same shop as her. In the meantime he kept walking, though he did slow briefly by the window and glance through to see if she was visible on the other side of the window displays.
She laughed. This wasn't the same as the other two. He may have been walking behind her but he could already tell it hadn't affected her face in the same way. A small laugh, subdued, not meant to be overheard by anyone. A just-for-her laugh. He could already tell it would be harder to catch her at this one than the first one, so he'd have to keep on the alert if he wanted to see the way it made her eyes look. In the meantime he filed this away, the second in a collection of Saffron Whitby's distinctive types of laughter.
She stopped by the Three Broomsticks. Calvin's heart rate picked up, because there was no reasonable excuse for him to dally where he was; he was in front of a modiste's with corseted dresses on mannequins in the displays, so he could hardly pretend to be window shopping. He couldn't backtrack without drawing attention. The next shop that might have been a reasonable place to stop and look at the display was two storefronts down, and that would be too close to her. She wasn't guaranteed to notice him — there was nothing especially noteworthy about him, today or most days — but it was close enough to her that she might, and he didn't want that. This left only one option: he'd have to walk past her. Not too far, because he didn't know where she was going yet and he didn't want to accidentally head the wrong direction, but far enough to put a safe distance between them until he could stop and idle by a window.
He had to stop looking at her as he approached. She might not have noticed while he was still behind her, but the woman she was talking to would have. He dared only one glance just as he was passing her. They were still easily an arm's length away at least, but it was close enough for him to see the way the wisps of hair at her neck coiled above her scarf, close enough to watch the way her throat moved when she was preparing to speak, close enough to spot an ink stain on her sleeve, close enough to hear her said of course to the proprietress. He savored the musicality of the words when she said them. Of course.
And then he was past her, moving on to a shop he couldn't have cared less about and pretending to be interested in a flier they'd plastered on the doorpost. He could have read it twice over by the time she stopped her conversation with the innkeeper, but fortunately no one seemed inclined to pay him much attention. Saffron hurried along once she said her goodbyes, but of course he couldn't mimic that pace without drawing attention to himself. He turned away from the flier a beat and a half before she reached him, so that she overtook his leisurely pace as she walked by. Her scarf bounced behind her when she walked quickly.
She turned into a store, and he had a dilemma: to follow her in or not? It would be difficult to kill enough time on the street not to lose her when she came out again. He could make a circle of the downtown area, but then it was hit or miss whether he'd be back around the right time for her to have finished her errand. But if he went inside... well, that was risky. Small shop, crowded aisles, less space to go unnoticed. Which store was it? — Scrivenshaft's. He considered. Probably he wasn't going to learn any of her favorite things by following her in; probably this was something work related. Quills and parchments. Not worth the risk, he determined. Not yet, anyway. He knew so very little about her at the moment; when he could better predict what she was going to do, maybe he could chance being in the same shop as her. In the meantime he kept walking, though he did slow briefly by the window and glance through to see if she was visible on the other side of the window displays.
![[Image: sdJxdAP.png]](https://i.imgur.com/sdJxdAP.png)