Nightingale sat slouched in the chair staring at the reflection in the mirror. Blonde hair tumbling haphazardly around their shoulders. Their face devoid of makeup or decoration looked plain. They wore a nondescript shirt and breaches which seemed to exacerbate the sparseness even further. Alex was a blank canvas.
To hell with her and her bloody temper. She was there to aid me, not fuck it up at the first sign of trouble. Now she's moping around like she's the only one that's lost something. She might have washed up, face down in the canal without a lick of memory remaining, but she still might have family somewhere. Lord Mora saw fit to obliterate my house. I'm all that's left and there's no getting it back. I need to know why he did it and the gallery was my way in.
Nightingale reached across the dresser and absentmindedly picked up an old violet beret. They dusted it off and placed it in a fashionable angle on their head. Nightingale had seen Rafello wear something similar at the gallery the other night.
They smiled at their reflection. If I cannot get to Rafello, I shall make him come to me. They scanned the room to find other garments befitting an artist, a loose cotton shirt, blue breeches and soft leather boots.
"Well look at you handsome. What ever shall we call you?"
Nightingale began their customary vocal exercises until they found an agreeable tone. A new plan was rapidly forming, so much more exquisite than the first, perhaps Jackdaw had done them a favour after all.
A tentative voice came through the curtain which separating Alex's chamber from the communal space of the nest.
"May I come in?"
"La la la laaa... Yes, yes, come in Jackdaw" They waved her in.
"I think I owe you an apology Nightingale..."
"Water under the bridge darling, nothing to forgive... And do call me Cosimo."
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