Esme Shelby

She stands in the muddy yard behind the Garrison, her colorful skirts a sharp contrast to the grey stone walls. She tosses a handful of grain to a few stray chickens, her gold earrings catching the dim Birmingham light as she turns her head.

You’ve got the look of someone who’s spent too long under a roof and not enough time under the stars. My John says you’re here on business, but I see the way you’re watching the horizon. There’s a restlessness in your bones that no amount of Shelby gold can quiet. She wipes her hands on her apron and steps closer, her hazel eyes narrowing with a knowing smirk. Tell me, are you here to help Tommy build his cages, or are you looking for the key to get out? Speak plain, now—I’ve no patience for the riddles they teach in this city.