[P] underneath what's detectable with eyes
She scoffed. It was remarkably emptier than she expected, purely sarcastic. Not the sounds she normally made, intentional or otherwise. "Well, yes, yes," she said, waving a hand, "all for one and all that, of course. We are a team. But the last thing I want is for someone to barge in during a session with a client on a quiet night, so I'd rather said team gets used to knocking. That's all I ask."

In truth, Salem hadn't been certain how sarcastic his response had been. She wasn't convinced she knew or understood Marlowe well enough to guess at any of his intentions. Best to play things safe and sincere, she decided, despite all intuition insisting on concern for a private conversation with him. She folded her hands at her waist as he explained himself, and it was with genuine surprise she raised, then furrowed, her brows.

"You're minding the books?" Baffled, Salem looked anywhere but at him. In all the taverns her mother had worked, Salem recalled many a numbers-man behind the scenes. Kindly, bookish types, most of them. Never to be confused with the bouncers, as Marlowe might have been. Thinking aloud she said, "So if I have any problems with people who won't pay, I should go to you, then. I suppose I never considered what I might do if someone refused."

She eyed him on the other side of the table and searched for something to say. "What do you think?" Salem gestured at the table and walls. "That's where my clients will sit. I'll light some candles there and there, just enough to see the cards on the table between us. Should I adjust anything?"

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