He’d looked at her without meaning to, tilted his line of sight just up from the counter and the books, caught a flash of something in her face that felt familiar but that he could not explain.

A bead of ink rolled from his quill - payment for his hesitation - and Jay, quite as stoically as before, stuck the quill back in its pot, let his fingers come to rest, contemplatively, on the wood. She seemed quick. Perhaps a little loud, but volume shrank with a person with intimidation, and if she encountered anyone else in Fox’s family, he would expect her to shrink, facing them. (He had, and he’d been here longer. Sometimes he’d even been here first.)

“And where’s home, Imogen?” He inquired, in the same measured tone, in spite of the fact she wouldn’t have been lurking about here if she had any good answer to that. Not that Fox & Son was necessarily a good answer to anyone’s position, either. (Jay did not regret following Mr. Fox when he’d instructed him to, but he didn’t know that he’d recommend it to anyone.) Even if all she did was sweeping, cleaning - if Fox let her stay, he’d survey her, scrutinise her for a different use. Find something much worse for her to do.

Whatever her story, though, he wasn’t sure the girl would believe him if he said go home, if you can.

---