They're stepping inside Niska's house, and even now, Brigitte can't help but glance around and take in this first sight of the woman's living area. And she notices, of course, how bare and tidy it is: compared to Brigitte's chaotic room at the inn, all knick-knacks and crumpled clothing and scraps of paper, this is pristine. It could simply be the product of an obsessively tidy mind, but something about it feels more than that.

And then, Niska's words. The gravity of them. The inherent vulnerability. Brigitte nods: "Yes. Okay. Tell me what I have to do. Can I take a look?"

She's still operating under the automatic assumption that her friend is human, her own instincts ready to kick into the usual medical triage; even if those skills are going to be fairly irrelevant in a moment.