It's some days before Cecelia makes any appearances outside of a room on the second floor. Save for maybe some screaming one could've heard in the hedge maze days prior, she hasn't ventured out. Granted, that ceaseless sense of duty did have her figure filling up the window to peer down and spy the heads of the people she knows and cares about, but that's less an appearance and more an apparition, isn't it.

When the crushing feeling of anxious anticipation for some new doom to appear eases up and she's taken the time she needs to tend to old harm and tie up new corsets, she steps out to take stock of this new place. It is new - the name can be the same, the concierge's voice and face can match, but this isn't the Staywell - she's determined to believe. It may be the same story they're in, but it's a new chapter.

Clad in deep green silks with cactus blossom accents lacing some of the trim, hair neatly drawn back in a thick braid, ring dangling from a cleaned silver chain down her neck, Cecelia takes her time to wander and consider the place. It's familiar in ways that make her head ache consistently, but in some moments stronger than others. This feels more comfortable by far, even though her skin still prickles with the expectation of a hazard.

That's why her breath cuts short whenever she hears footfalls down a hall or up the nearest stairs; her keen hearing both helping and hindering her sense of safety as she waits with unease for the owner of those steps to emerge. She can pray for either a face she knows and loves, or hope for an amenable presence who will let her fall back into the comfortable role of guide.

...For what little that would do! She still needs to check on her things! Thankfully, she can share that purpose with whomever crosses her path.

If she thinks too long about it, she may cry out of relief for the sight and smell of proper tea. It was such a comfort before the blood began to flow, and even before then, back when young lost Mayoi had tended his tiny tea garden...

All of that...it's gone now, isn't it. The thought makes her heart ache.

I'll remember you, she thinks, sitting down at a vacant little table with a weirdly on-brand teapot housing a strong, black tea. She may have elvish blood and a fondness for floral notes, but an undiluted, bitter leaf hits the best for moments such as these.

She means to just sit with the cup for but a minute or two before taking it with her, but...um...

"..."

Wiggling without getting too indecent about it proves futile. Red-faced, she looks around the place for sign of others' distress. It's not just her, is it? She didn't...sit in something weird, did she?

Gads.