Winston had been true to his word then, and was trying to help; that much at least reassured Mallaidh that she might not be quite as adrift as she feared. Leaving the plumpness of near threadbare seat, she stood before them. 

The more than cursory glance Mallaidh gave Rozalind put the halted conversation into perspective. The bandages largely hid flesh that was mottled and reminiscent of dried plums. It seemed as though this woman wanted death over disfigurement, which made Mallaidh, who wore each scar as a badge and a sign of adversity not only survived, but also conquered, form all manner of disrespectful preconceptions. The man reminded Mallaidh somewhat of a wolf, and if she had ever seen a snake, she would have drew better comparison from that. His smile was too easy, and his mannerisms too offhand; she suspected it was all superficial, that his humour was misdirection, and wondered what lay beneath, when the smiling mask cracked. Suddenly, she was very aware quite how far gone from realm of her comprehension she was; with the giddiness of reaching Tír na nÓg, or what she believed to be so, fading ever so slightly, the notion that something more sinister was afoot rooted itself in the back of her mind. It made her hairs stand on end and her heart beat just that little bit faster.  

Nevertheless, that seed would not sprout and bear fruit yet, and, in hope-blinded folly, she put her trust in these two strangers. 

“I am no child, Doc Tur Twayne,” she said, her chin tilting ever so slightly skywards. Her heart was racing, despite her outwards calm, beating against her ribcage, calling her a fool for caring about an affronted pride. Mallaidh felt more strongly, though, in her spirit, that she must show that she was worth helping, that she was not some fireless lass. Fragarach, the hefty sword, would have comforted her with its solid touch, but alas, she was alone, yet her gaze held steady and intent at Twain. 

“But I shall come.”