[ It's an ugly path that they've been set upon, although Waverly is none-the-wiser. In the end she will wonder, spend hour upon hour, retracing these first moments together, trying to find the initial misstep, the very instant where they began to veer so terribly out of orbit. She will tear herself apart wondering as she tugs at her bonds, asking after her crime but to no answer. What exactly had she done wrong? Where precisely did they go astray? There will be clues, of course, vague evidence towards guilt: too friendly, too trusting, a turn of phrase here, some body language there. Dots that, in anyone else's hands, would have stayed unconnected, being naturally scattered too far apart. But for Mr. Quinn — Dubhlainn — it is nearly the total picture, almost a complete whole. All that's missing from the equation is her (she'll learn that soon enough, but not yet).

The number and name finally retrieved, Waverly squints at it and tries to sound out the name. ] Dub— Dube— is it Dube-lane? [ Her smile is apologetic as she clutches the small scrap of paper between her fingers. ] Dube-lane Quinn? It's Irish, right? You look— [ (I've been watching you.) ] —you kinda look Irish. And, y'know. Your voice and stuff.

[ Nervously, she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. ] It's cool.