The water began to gather around Abigail - the rain water stuck to her like a clinging mass and in the warmth of the bar started to drip down her clothes and hair, forming a little puddle around her feet. Same happened to the envelope she placed on the table - a water soaked piece of once pretty and expensive paper left some traces of water mixed with ink; thankfully though the presence of herself was enough of a proof to the woman sitting before her that Abigail indeed is Abigail, one and only, the one invited, or as spoke later - the one promoted. Promoted from where to what was something to question, as the spotlight of attention - coming from the woman in charge of this operation, the said young man and the bartender girl - gathered on Abigail’s drenched shape in a heating focus of the gaze concentrated on her, almost erasial on the background in its intensity. Before replying to her own questioning mind though or to the woman, Abigail looked at the bartender girl, who placed a clear glass just beside the puddle of water leaving the envelope. 

“[color=f26522]Whiskey[/color]”, Abigail said, eyeing the glass, before adding a cough, clearing her throat from the humidness creeping through her neck. Taking a proposed seat she glanced over the gathered people, while fixing her drenched hair away from her face and a bit aside, allowing the water to drip down from it on the floor and aside herself, [color=f26522]“Numbe’ two, ey?[/color]”, she asked the woman, puzzled by the phrasing, even though subconsciously curious about what kind of role she was about to take in. Listening to the woman talk was to give Abigail some introduction to the gathered company; even though the manner of Mary’s speech was to leave the floating gaps of meaning, leaking through with ambiguity and mist between the said words, resulting in leaving Abigail with more questions than any answers on what is going on here. Abigail felt wary of that, feeling some undertones she didn’t like about this way of speaking; but before she could wrap her mind about it, the young detective named Montag spoke up.

His face looked young, the voice of his matched the impression, the words that followed were too covered in a mist as they echoed across the bar, as if the ambience got slightly consumed by the sound of his voice. 
“[color=f26522]Nice to meet ye. I am Abigail. McCarthy.[/color]”, she says replying to Montag as well as participating in this weird scene of introducing herself to each other - it felt like a distant memory coming back in a new clothing - a same moment of introduction back in the sisterhood now away from home, away from the people of home, away from the green fields, away from the idea of home itself, cramped inside of the narrow streets and shady bar, in the veil of the cigarette smoke, spoke in whispers. 
“[color=f26522]I em.. a helper of sorts around ‘ere. Know medicine, surgery. Some.. languages too. Had a bit of a travel around. Not much to say[/color]”, she said of herself, not wishing to mention the religious side of her occupation yet.

But what was it her reason to be here, right here in the bar, the reason Montag referenced as he spoke to her directly? She didn’t know. He surely had some reasons - behind a cigarette there was a sharp glance, and that reasoning should’ve been shared between all of them. 
What was hers? Why is she sitting here?
To find answers? Maybe. She nodded to Montag. 
“[color=f26522]Ye. I guess we all share the same reason to be ‘ere[/color]”, she said.
Thing is she didn’t know the right questions.