Not in Nassau, I hope. [ British Naval Officers haven't done well there, historically.

A n y w a y.

Max's eyes slide away from the fight, to follow a young woman's hand as she takes advantage of said distraction to deftly pocket an already-stolen hatpin from a table. A fond smile tugs at the corners of Max's lips, and she tugs Prior toward the table of previously owned hats to cement the redirection. ]

This sort of business, it is not so different from being a hostess, I think. People here have needs, like anywhere else — only these needs, the world has told them they cannot fill. Society has said to them, they may not live comfortably — their skills are not acceptable, their ambitions too large for their humble beginnings — and they have resolutely disagreed. They need things to sell, people to sell to, and safe places to conduct their business and their lives where the rest of the world cannot touch them.

[ She plucks one — a tricorne — from the table and holds it level with Prior. Hmmmm. ]

Or, sometimes they simply need the right hat. Not everything is complicated.