She is dressed in flowing whisps of silver silk and grey gauze. Slim as a boy, almost androgynous in figure, her greyed skin (like a black-and-white photograph) is only a shade or two lighter than her silvery mask, the same as the one she wore to the Solstice Masquerade. That may be black hair behind her mask or then again, it might be shadow.

"My Horned Lady," she says, her alto voice sounding different than last he heard. "Alcuin nò Delaunay. We meet again."