“I'm sorry?” Fiona asks, turning.
Before her is a tall, thin man wearing a foot length coat, buttoned at the front with a hood pulled over to hide half his face.
“We are sorry to disturb you,” he says, “but you seemed somewhat overwhelmed, and a lady of your stature should require formal welcome to this august institution. We would welcome you, without, alas, official sanction, to the market of fictions.”
“And who are you?”
“We are Johann Baptist Strauss, and we are at your service.”
“Thank you, I think. It certainly looks wild in there.”
