Gilded Bay always had high, high hopes

He reminds her of Screech.  It's nothing in his mannerisms or speech, but in the disordered way he eats.  She watches him hawkishly as he consumes, half-convinced he will start to choke and she will have to save him like she had the young Redhawk.

She's thankful when she doesn't.  There is an ease to his battered, wavewracked body that reminds her of Bruges.  It brings a warmth to her cheeks, the tips of her ears, and her belly.  No, she says sternly, though the dancing glint in her argent gaze and the coy turn to her mouth would tell a different story.

You're not from around here, are you?