Her laugh is quiet, the rush of a river from a distance; secretive isn't among the qualities she's heard cited before in the list of reasons why she should perform, and it seems fitting in a way that keeps her smiling when the laughter fades, wry. Sleight of hand is so much of what she is, after all--

"My father wanted me to sing," she says, touching the side of her throat, just under her hair, splaying her fingers there, thumb at her collarbone. "I was supposed to study for it at Guildhall, but it didn't- work out that way." Kidnapping and the apocalypse will put a crimp in the best laid plans. "I thought about playing somewhere, here; the cello, or if I can find a harp..."

A shrug.