Stopping Benedict must fall to Byerly—and to Whiskey, the large droopy-faced hound who's partway down the stairs to see who this new voice belongs to, but no further, before lying back down stretched across the width of the steps to observe. Bastien is busy at the door, ducking to catch the scruffy rat-faced terrier who's attempting a much more energetic investigation.

"Mademoiselle Arany!" he says as he stands up straight again, squirming dog tucked into his arm like a parcel. "We're so glad you could make it. Please come in."

The room she's invited into has been neatened up for her benefit, but there's still a friendly amount of clutter—overstuffed bookshelves, a leaning stack of cups on the fireplace mantel, that kind of thing—and an assortment of secondhand furniture that prioritizes extra seating over flow. But between the two of them, they do have something of an eye for aesthetics, and so it all coalesces into a respectably shabby maximalist style, warmly lit and begging for company, Benedict's attempt to flee from it notwithstanding.

Introductions may not be necessary, after so many weeks of passing familiarity in the Gallows, but they're only polite: "I'm Bastien, and this," the terrier in his armpit, "is Rat Red, Whiskey on the stairs, Byerly Rutyer, and of course you know our Benedict."