Henry waits. Long minutes pass - five, ten, fifteen. The candle shines, but who is there to see it through the fog and the gloom? The room remains dark and silent, save for a small rustling now and then. Probably a mouse.<br/><br/>Suddenly, Henry hears a creak from the stairwell. Then confident footsteps striding down the hallway. He recalls how each step creaked on the way up. Whoever it is that ascended the stairs made noise only on the last step, as if they<em>meant</em>to be heard.<br/><br/>The door slowly opens. Beyond it is a woman that Henry can only describe as nondescript. Her brown hair is in a short braid. Her face is vaguely pretty, in an unremarkable sort of way. Her clothing, a tunic and trousers and boots and a hooded cloak, is in neutral shades of brown and tan. In short, she looks like an average citizen of the Lower City, her exact age and occupation impossible to guess.<br/><br/>“Well, well. So you can follow directions. Stage directions, now that's something else. Mayhaps write your lines on your hand next time. And not mutter so much. Say it like you mean it, that’s the way.” She studies Henry with a nasty little smile on her unremarkable face.