( by her estimations, the older her would've had the lay of the land mapped out by now. perhaps she would've even brushed elbows with the unrecognized denizen or two to see what they may know through.. friendly enough conversation. this iteration of her doesn't seem to mind one way or the other. to her, either she will find out more in due time, or she will be returned to her previous post to resume her duties. it seems someone saw fit to loosen her leash, so she'll walk.

which is how she finds herself here amongst the greenery and filtering sunlight, teacup in hand, basking in the steam and steeped leaves as if the elaborate spread was indeed laid out in this greenhouse just for her. she has some notes about the selections, one she's keeping track of somewhere in the back of her mind, all so she might offer her insight later.

for now, she sits unbothered despite any who might approach, her attention still mostly on her cup even as she's taken it upon herself to greet whoever it may be. voice low, in a pace of her own: )

Might I pour you a cup? This particular blend would pair well with company.

( an exhibit. how quaint.

she skips the drinks entirely this time, opting to keep both hands free beneath her fluttering coat as she peruses through the gallery. half expecting the heavy tinge of blood in the air, it's almost odd to find it lacking no matter how much she wandered. not that she thinks it a requirement, her more recent exposure to the arts certainly lacks it as a medium, but it did still seem to be the overwhelming preference back home.

🠶 perhaps you find her (or more accurately, bump into her) in the dark room filled with stringed lights. having been curious, it seems the strange woman has actively opted to avoid brushing against the lights at all in her search for the next area. a belated and unintended scare, perhaps someone should tell her halloween's over.
🠶 or maybe she's staring at the light show of shifting perspectives, asking for your thoughts on the piece. unless you're looking particularly motion sick, in which case she will do so from a respectful distance away.
🠶 then there's the canopy of flowers, whispering overlapping secrets. a veritable cacophony of confessions, unceasing and dissonant. maybe there's a few of her own in there, maybe not. maybe she'll hear a familiar voice? a question, then, for an onlooker: do they think there's a grain of truth in these? how interesting, if so.

whatever the adventure may be, what fun they will surely have. )