Alan stares back impassively, head tipping to match Malcolm's. He shrugs a little — it's no trouble — as they pass.

With the final preparations still hurrying to finish, the attention Malcolm attracts isn't as pronounced as it might be later in the day: for security purposes, the Inquisition's arrived ahead of some certain guests. Still no small number of eyes track his progress. A few attached noble chins bury themselves behind fans to gossip; other, plainer masks trade wary looks, and begin following at a long distance.

"If she's Milady," The girl's fallen silent for a time, consider this very important point, "Does that make you Milord?"

Guilty suspicion: "I'm not supposed to talk to lords." Her fingers loosen their grip, and she takes an uncertain step back.