The Syriac Well cab sticks out well enough, and Benevenuta is visible inside it even before she urges the driver to stop and hops lightly down on the off-chance that Lucius is going to need a hand up into it. She's a compact woman in person, in both her build and her manner; efficient is the word, purposeful though she's evidently been caught at the tail-end of a busy day, in jeans and flats with her hair pulled loosely back.

"Hello," she greets him, offering a hand and defaulting to the local preference for English (it'll be useful, she supposes, to get more in the habit of speaking it and learning its tricks and ways from the inside out). "At some point, you are going to have to give me a name."

And for all that she is so unassuming, so pleasant and so skilful in the role of (as Ayse described it) helpless foreigner, there is that undercurrent of arrogance that some might pick out; she will give discretion, but she expects an explanation for herself. A name. Cooperation. She has an idealist's bleeding heart, but she's neither naive nor quite what's called gentle.