And he'd know, wouldn't he, Greta thinks wryly. Or perhaps his own ability to adjust to time loops and mysterious origins and assassins just means he's inclined to set the bar a little too high. In her own experience, visitors from heretofore unknown planes of existence tend not to get along so well with the native population. None of the Rifties that she knows of are Giants, but there are an awful lot of newcomers, all told. She couldn't really blame the locals for being ill at ease.

But there's something laterally comforting about the way Beth is gently playing with Angus's fur. Maybe Greta just wants to be reassured. "Yes," she says as she watches their animals, "I suppose you're right." By which she means that she hopes he's right. At the very least, they ought to be able to manage the good neighbors bit. That's just common courtesy.

She looks back up at the Balladeer, a sheepish smile tugging at her lips. "I've missed you," she admits, reaching for his hand. "We'll have to meet in the Park or something." Uneasy as she might be about public opinion, it at least seems safe to say that they're past the point of needing to avoid one another for their collective safety.