His fingers close around hers, cold and vice-like, but not painfully so. He wisks her off, taking her to one of the few unoccupied rooms. It was stuffed with props, a former changing room relegated to storage but only recently. A chair from some production that clearly featured royalty is quickly cleared as he indicates for her to sit. He produces a clean, white kerchief with a small skull embroidered elegantly in black thread, and holds it out to her.