It's pretty early in the day, and if Baedal sports any kind of rush hour, Benji Ryans and Wolfgang Einhorn are fractionally evading it while the air is still very crisp from a cool evening. The walk to Echomire is not long, and if given opportunity, Benji prefers to do so than navigate the train system. The river is a peaceful presence of their left, and Benji freely leads the way, quiet but alert, boot heels clicking on cobblestone and dressed in blue wide-knit and denim, favouring fabrics that both drown and cling to her.

She's talked to Dr. Bernàt a day prior, and scheduled the appointment, spoke in quiet and slightly fretful tones about why she-- it's not for me, a friend of mine-- needs it.

Madrasati, to her, is familiar and welcoming, but it does have a stately, imposing vibe in the dim morning, pavement leading up to its old brick mouth, well-kept garden on either side. Her hand seeks out Wolfgang's without much in the way of thought as they approach.