Someone clears their throat.

It isn't Salvio, actually. He is there, in the doorway: hunched back, slumped shoulders, the worn sleeves of his well-washed robe bunched nervously over his hands. He looks cautious, nervous, his eyes blinking rapidly as he takes in the sight of the room.

But he didn't clear his throat. The tall spindled specter beside him did. The man is wearing a pale green robe, and a fine belt. His goatee is neatly trimmed. He looks almost corporeal, but catch him in the right light and the stone of the wall behind him might be visible.

The man scowls, disapproving. "This is it?" Fereldan by accent, but the sharp sniff that he gives next is universal, obvious. "Really, the widespread fragility is worrying. Astounding. Room after room of a kind of mundane sadness--"

Salvio is ignoring him outright, not even looking around at the spirit as the man talks on, adding to his litany of critique. Salvio wouldn't be looking at him, anyways. He is focused on Tessa.

"He's," he starts, from the doorway. Unwilling or unable to cross the threshold. He winces, tries again. "You're, um. Aware?"