"Deucalion," she repeats, committing the name to memory and studying his face, his eyes, the way he carries himself. "He spoke as do you; he enjoyed poetry. He lived beneath the city, and caught me out of a blizzard I oughtn't have wandered into."

Literally, in fact; she rolled down a snowbank into his arms. She remembers having been affronted at the indignity of being so weakened by elements that shouldn't have been capable of as much, and grateful for a warm, safe place to weather the rest of it until she could return to Integra and Alucard.

(She sidesteps the memory of how abashed she was for her own foolishness when she did return. That part is irrelevant!)

"I believe he was from an earlier period, as some here are as well. You and he feel...alike to me," she lifts a hand, "but I believe I couldn't mistake you twice."

Psychics. They're wily.