Scarves displayed in a veritable curtain of colour are what have Benji's attention when Wolfgang approaches. The seller, now prodding and poking at some other prospective buyer, had said something about magic weaved into their fabric and this inspires a vague amount of uncertainty. But they're attractive, silken, and when she is quite sure the vendor isn't looking, picks up a fringed end to toy with between clean fingertips, and something previously purchased wrapped in paper and tucked under an arm.

In contrast to the wild array of colours, her wardrobe's palette is predictably drab, greys and blacks and muted blues, but by now, recognisable for it.

When someone sidles on over, the dropping of the cloth she's inspecting so that it can fall back into place is either guilty or just. Freeing herself of obligation to buy it, hands neatly tangling together. But it isn't the vendor, looking up, and Wolfgang's wan smile is met with a brighter one, and then a glance as if to spy who is more annoying than Benji's company.

"I'll even pretend you're on time," she says, turning on a heel to face him. "And you can distract me from all the pretty things." Well, inanimate objects.