Villanelle's fingers itch for a weapon. She bends, skims the feathers with the back of her hand, and drags the scarf from the ground, the bells jangling softly as she winds it around her fingers. Red silk, so soft and fine it catches on the ridges of her fingertips.

"Weird? No." She takes a step toward him, anticipation tightening in her gut. "But you must be the expert if you've been here that long. What kind of weird are we talking about?"