"You have done this often, Monsieur?"

Her inclination's once more to turn the damn thing over and hit it a few times. But they've evidence enough by now to know that would be a poor idea.

She shuffles the rest of the stack from the way, investigates the mouldering pants once more. Her fingers linger on something in one of the pockets — oddly hard, against the rotting cloth. Wren fishes out a slim bit of metal (peculiarly distinct in its shaping) to pass it over.