As Alice began to run for her life, Sasha merely turned his head. Before dashing after her, he sighed and glanced down to examine his nails for half an instant.

He was inhumanly fast, and the gust of air he left in his wake was enough to wobble the mirrors and pushed a short table well out of place. Instead of moving to intercept Alice, he grabbed at the lower hem of her skirt, attempting to trip her and send her off her footing. After that, it was only a matter of placing himself beside her and holding out an arm so that he could gently catch her before she tumbled to the ground.

“Your shop is closed, Alice Lynch,” Sasha informed her cheerfully, his chestnut eyes slanted down at her. He ran one hand over his hair and looked around the shop to assess its noticeable lack of customers. “It so happens that I [i]do[/i] know about about your ancestry, so allow me to enlighten you.” 

Although it was clear that he didn’t intend to allow her to flee, Sasha made no further attempt to keep her physically in his grasp. If she ran again, he would only stop her again. Let her exhaust herself and surrender, he thought, rather than subduing her with brute strength. He wasn’t a savage. Especially not in this female-empowered, post feminist era. Women could even own [i]land[/i] these days, or choose their own husbands, or even keep their own names after marriage.

“Alasdair was a Celt and your great grandfather to some obscene degree.” Sasha placed a hand to his chest. “I knew him as Aleksander, but he still called himself Alasdair in his own journals. From what I can read in that ancient tongue. He must have thousands of descendents by now—one of which is you—” He pointed at Alice. “But he had a favored bloodline. Eldest children, typically.”

He grimaced.

“If you’re not willing to cooperate, I suppose I could use your father instead.” Sasha looked down at the waifish girl. “Or… do you have any siblings?”