4141.219 · August 7, 1821 AD
Portable Wealth
Some transactions announce intentions more loudly than words ever could. When William Jeffries walks into the Colonial Bank requesting a withdrawal so massive it opens the vault and terrifies the clerks, everyone watching knows: this is a man preparing for something. Flight, perhaps. Or payment for sins that compound with interest. Then, on the cobblestones outside, he spots the watcher in the alley. Dark eyes beneath a wide-brimmed hat. Someone marking his movements. Recording his desperation.
Five days since the crimson-sealed letter arrived. Five days of sleepless calculation, of lists written and burned, of plans formed in darkness. Now William Jeffries stands in Hobart Town's Colonial Bank with a withdrawal request that staggers young Timothy Rankin—a sum representing more than the clerk will earn in several lifetimes. Manager Jeremiah Fleming's hands tighten on the paper as he reads the figure. This isn't routine banking. This is liquidation.
An hour later, William emerges with a leather satchel heavy with portable wealth. Enough to purchase passage. Enough to buy silence. Enough to start fresh somewhere Blackwood's reach might not extend. The winter afternoon receives him with indifferent cold.
Then he sees the watcher. Thirty yards distant, in an alley mouth where shadow meets failing light. Wide-brimmed hat pulled low. Dark coat, nondescript. The posture of someone prepared to move quickly in any direction. Dark eyes fixed on William with terrible intensity.
The figure wasn't there when William entered. Which means he took up position during that hour. Waiting. Watching. Marking.
William descends the bank steps with forced calm, the satchel swinging at his side. He does not look toward the alley as he passes. To look would acknowledge fear.
But the watcher has already seen what he needed to see.
