She's making for the inn, having been told where to find lodging. It's strange to be on this side of the matter, after the year when Whitestone was taking in a regular stream of refugees; she'd have loved to talk shop with the Mayor, but the poor woman looked so harried that she hadn't the heart to ask for any more of her time. Perhaps later.

When the shadow passes over, she doesn't think much of it; when it circles around, she looks up.

And keeps looking up, shading her eyes from the sun with her hand, even as her heart leaps like a horse clearing a fence.