Saint Denis stretched around them like a living organism, teeming with noise and motion, exactly the sort of place Josiah Trelawny loved. After weeks of coaxing Dutch into a plan grander than any they had attempted before, the gang was finally here. Josiah had insisted on a proper orientation—an introduction to the city, its rhythm, and the subtleties hidden in its streets.

Horses clopped against cobblestones, merchants shouted in accents that twisted his tongue, and women in high skirts brushed past men in polished coats. Every corner held a thousand distractions, every alley a thousand possibilities. Josiah moved through it all like a conductor, hands flicking and gesturing as he narrated the city’s rhythm.

“Nearby, there are multiple routes into that bank,” he said, voice light, almost musical, but he paused abruptly. A subtle shift in her stance caught his eye—the shadow of her top hat dipping lower over sharp, assessing eyes.

He followed her line of sight and noticed a pair of city policemen moving through the crowd, deliberate, careful, as though they had been briefed. She did not flinch. Only the tiniest adjustment of her hat, a deliberate motion to shade her eyes, hinted that she had registered their presence. Her posture was precise, every movement controlled, every motion deliberate. Dangerous, deliberate, aware of everything in the street.

Josiah cleared his throat, tilting his hat. “I should have mentioned this,” he said softly, his voice almost apologetic, though more in habit than necessity. The city moved around them—children darted past vendors, a carriage rattled over stones, a horse snorted—but she remained a calm, silent anchor amidst the chaos, scanning, calculating, and absorbing.

He watched her, noting the way she moved through the crowd, blending yet apart, commanding space without needing it, each motion measured and exact. She made the city seem almost predictable, as if it had no chance to surprise her.

“So,” he said after a pause, voice returning to its usual rhythm, “the bank itself—unassailable to some, but not to the observant. There are always cracks, ways to slip past the inattentive, to catch the clever off guard.” His gaze flicked toward her again, quietly acknowledging her competence, her presence, her edge. She did not answer, nor did she need to. She simply stood there, silent, calculating, entirely in control, every bit as lethal as the city itself could be.