Darktown is not a place where Alexandrie would normally have even briefly considered stepping her dainty slippered foot for any reason at all. With Emile gone she still wouldn’t.

So she doesn’t. She steps Geneviève’s confident booted foot in it instead.

Despite their being identical, it is very rarely that they raid each other’s closets—especially so in this direction—but here she is in pants with a fitted shirt tucked into them and well worn and cared for leather boots to her knees, her hair pulled back in a functional tail at the nape of her neck, knife visible at her back as a deterrent. Her face is set severely, and she walks with both purpose and the aped gait of a practiced swordswoman. She hasn’t the skills to back it, but perhaps any would-be toughs won’t know.

Even so she is nervous and jumpy, and is glad when she finally reaches the clinic where she’d been told she could find the Inquisition’s most veteran healer. She could have sent by crystal, yes, but she wants to see his face when he answers her question. Has to know beyond a shadow of a doubt that he believes whatever it is he says.

The door is open when she pushes it, leans through, and then walks inside to call to him softly.

“...Anders?”