Despite what she's just learned, Greta feels a knee-jerk, instinctive urge to defend the Balladeer's normalcy (or perhaps to question what 'normal' even means anymore). She bites it back. All she can do is take him at his word as far as Booth is concerned. Apparently he's armed with a knife (and a 'gun,' whatever that is).

"No scolding him, then," she says. She might sound faintly disappointed. It worked so well last time. She releases the Balladeer's arm, leans back against the wall, and tugs off the scarf, using it to mop her forehead. At least it's cooler in here.

She nods up at the statue, idly twisting and untwisting the scarf around her hands. "Who was he?"