There shouldn’t be anyone else on the roof. Certainly not anyone she’s unfamiliar with. And she does not recognize the voice that speaks to her, that claims to have heard about her. She very nearly reaches for a blade she doesn’t wear, very nearly calls on the bees that heed her summons. (Plants are more distant, less immediately there for her to call upon.)

But she doesn’t. She waits. Turning towards the shadow-cloaked stranger warily. Watchfully. Her nightmares set aside for the moment.

“Have you, now?” She asks curiously. “I’m not sure why that should surprise me. You are in Whitestone at present.” Because when in doubt, sass. It’s the de Rolo way. Even when confronted by strangers on rooftops where they shouldn’t be.