For a moment, she silently takes stock of the facts. One, someone has apparently lost their heart. Two, she most certainly knows no soul here or in England named Te Fiti and three: only one of those things matter, because it is causing this young woman great distress.

"With you where? In your hand, pockets—let us retrace your steps. Perhaps it lies somewhere hidden in the grass."

She does not just want to give up without trying to assuage her.

"What does it look like, mistress?" Ah. "My name is Elizabeth."