At the arrival of more footsteps, Sabine-- is extremely conscious of the fact she is holding a knife and some kind of mysterious substance in a secret vial in both of her hands. Her impulse is to throw incriminating items out a window, or into the shadows, but it's necessary to hold onto them, to bring them to--

--and then it's much too late anyway, merely bringing her hands down to disguise the items in the folds of her skirt, lamely, by the time Bellamy shadows in the doorway.

"He--"

Sabine catches herself, uncertain if she's willing to vouch for Bellamy in spite of knowing him a little better than most shems. Something about fighting alongside them instead of fighting against them. Her eyes flicker to Beleth, and the veining Dalish tattoos that curl just visible beyond her mask, and it's not that she distrusts her more. It's just a whole other set of qualifications that have her tense up, wary.

Dandelion, meanwhile, wheezes a protest, struggling, but struggling less than before. It snaps Sabine back to the present, before she points with the little dagger.

"Come in, then. Close that door." Better to handle this rather than have anyone running off, she figures, a glance sideways at Thranduil. Not exactly apology.