What is customary is that Loxley waits for her at his apartment.

But when she steps up onto the docks and out of the last ferry, movement will catch her eye. Loxley, waiting nearby, lifting his arm in a wave under the firelight of nearby street lanterns. Having attended the Gallows earlier that day to collect information, his orders, his wages, he'd left again while the sun was still in the sky.

And so, well entrenched on his side of the water, in a thick winter grey cloak that wraps heavy around his shoulders. Jewelry to a minimum, but Derrica can note a copper ring around one horn as she gets closer, and the golden cuffs she'd gifted him on the upturned ends.

And a smile, in spite of everything.