She seemed agreeable to the plan, and since they still had a minute or more free from fire, Ford decided he'd better turn it into an actual plan. He wanted a quill and parchment — sketching out the floor plan of the Sanditon, at least as far as he knew it, seemed like the best way to figure out where they ought to go from here — but it seemed unlikely he would find any here. He looked around for some anyway, and came up with a stick of something pink (purpose unknown, but he thought it might be the right sort of color to be used on someone's cheeks or their lips) which, when tested, marked fairly clearly on one of the mirrors. He tried to draw out his path from the ballroom to here, retracing his steps mentally as he did. He was trying to count out how long the hallway ought to be when her voice interrupted him.

Ford's first thought when she introduced herself by her first name was she really does think we're going to die, because that was not something that young ladies typically did regardless of circumstance. His second thought, as he glanced over to see her standing on top of the counter (he had been distracted since moving away from her and hadn't been watching what she was doing) was that maybe some of the smoke or the panic or the something had gone to her head and she was a little bit crazy, at least at the moment.

"Ah — Ford Greengrass," he supplied, as he scanned over her surroundings and tried to work out why she had climbed up there. He was coming up blank, and it looked rather precarious — though in fairness, he didn't know what she really looked like beneath the singed skirts, so perhaps she was sturdier than he was giving her credit for. In any case, based on his knowledge of ladies' footwear from his own sisters' closets he couldn't help but imagine she was one poorly placed toe away from toppling over. "Here, can I help you down from there? The last thing we need is one of us breaking an ankle," he explained, moving to offer her a hand.

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