She had forgotten just how quiet November Malfoy was. She had known it before the sonata and known it since, but not being in her company had lessened the impression – until one was here, and faced with it, the blonde beginning with a murmur so soft Porphyria had not the slightest hope of deciphering it.

Fortunately, her next answer was audible, which saved Phyri from leaning in far too close; she grinned as she considered the mysterious note again. “She does have a taste for the dramatic,” – and a mystery was inherently that, the lingering suspense all for the audience’s sake – “but I suspect that is why we both like her so dearly.” She gave Mrs. Malfoy a pointed glance. “Shall we?”

She checked the note again, and shot November another look, this one with a glimmer of merriment, before she swung open the door in question and stepped through purposefully.

To little effect, in the end. Just an ordinary room, as far as she could tell, with mirrors lining the wall. And no Ophelia, as yet. “The mystery continues,” Phyri declared with a thoughtful hum, her gaze drifting about the room until there was nowhere left to look but back at Mrs. Malfoy again. Which she did. Expectantly.

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