She bites deep from the orange. The rind pushes whole beneath her teeth, rubbery and strange, and tears free onto grey spiderweb. A ruin of pulp and string. She spits it out, wipes her mouth on a fistful of tablecloth,

And follows. Benedict, the bell. He's nearly too quick to catch, steps longer than even a tall man's stride, and she should heed that. Let him go, sink back to that strange table, and its stranger feast.

Still some compulsion chivvies her along.

"Does this ring before?"