As intimated, the door doesn't invite knocking—wrought iron over frosted glass—but there's nothing to stop her from pounding on the wall. The interior has nothing in common with his counterpart's room: a large gently lit bedroom, lavish without being excessive, the colors muted—browns, golds, a little blue. The furnishings are abundant, the flourishes elegant. Mirrors and so forth.

There's a clutter of personal effects on the dresser, some books on the nearest nightstand (it's the other nightstand that has the framed pictures). William, dressed as he usually is save for the hat, steps aside without a word. Keeps an eye out for blood, gauges how she holds herself.

“Who started it?” he asks, wry but not unsympathetic.