Edward stepped out of the townhouse and let the cool night air wash over him. The streets of the eastern quarter were quiet, only the distant shuffle of drunkards and the occasional bark of dogs breaking the silence. He tugged at the loose folds of his shirt, its front hanging open where Seraphine had torn through it. The fabric swayed in the wind, useless against the chill.
"Two days in this town," he muttered, patting it down with a grimace, "and both my shirts are ruined."
He shook his head and kept walking, boots scuffing against the uneven cobblestones.
Soon, the shuttered tavern came into view, its door nailed closed since the murder. Just in front of it stood Aeris, eagerly waiting. Even from a distance, he saw her arms crossed, her posture impatient.
He quickened his pace, and the moment she spotted him, she straightened. "What took so—" she began, but her eyes flicked lower. Her expression shifted instantly. "What happened to your shirt?"
