Niccola stands in the entrance of the tavern, dripping and befuddled, the confusion clearly evident on her features. A moment before she had been at the bottom of the pond, attempting to retrieve the hatchet that she had tossed into the water in a fit of pique and now she shifts from foot to foot in nothing but her wet shift and soaking braid, a puddle forming around her bare feet. She remembers a light through the gloom of the peaty water and now she is here. She ponders this a moment longer, before shrugging and making her way towards the crackling fire. After all, there are more things in heaven and earth and she is wet and cold. So now instead of standing on the doorstep wet and confused, she stands in front of the fire wet and confused, hands outstretched towards the inviting flames as she casts surreptitious glances around her.