Caspian POV
She was not being particularly subtle about it.
That was the thing about humans who believed they were being clever — they confused the absence of obvious error with the presence of actual skill, which was a category mistake that had provided me with steady employment for longer than most of the buildings in this city had been standing. Mrs. Delphine Arceneaux, née Thibodaux, had chosen the Marigny for her Tuesday evenings because it was three neighborhoods away from the Garden District house she shared with her husband of seven years and therefore, in her estimation, safe. She had told Henri Arceneaux she was attending a book club. The book club met on Thursdays. I had confirmed this inside of forty minutes without leaving my current position on the rooftop across the street
