As he repeats her words (she presumes), she tries to follow his own speech. She'll have to have to broken down, slower, she thinks, if she'd catch on. He's doing better than she is at this.

Then again, she's never had to do this. Learn an entirely new language. She knows pieces of Gaelic, but mostly she was raised with English and the Irish brogue and knows both. Can switch between both. Can even alter her accent.

And isn't Mr. Thorsson going to have a hell of a one after this.

"Yes. That's it," she says, and smiles at him. Not as a teacher to a child, but as a stranger to another. He's not a child, no matter that he cannot speak her language.

At the silent offer of companionship, she nods. "Yes, thank you," she says, and falls into step with him.

It's odd, still, walking without her corset. Without the weight of her skirts. Without her own shoes, with the fabric clinging to her. She tries not to fidget and flinch, and instead concentrates on the surroundings as they walk back towards the inn.

At least she's used to the bush, she thinks.