"Sprouted legs? What a silly thought," she replied with a thoughtful frown, returning to her handsome companion-turned instantaneous comrade. "No, it merely caught a boat to France and forgot me at the port," she explained with a devilish little bow from her eyelashes, and one corner of her mouth quirked upwards. Humorous as her explanation sounded, it was, more or less the truth. Except for the catching and forgetting part--that was better explained by her own poor luck and maybe a little demon beneath the dock. But those stories were better kept for a midnight campfire, if anything.
Each subject that they moved between seemed to spur on more grins, more entertainment, and an increasing sense of serendipity. They were supposed to cross paths (again), that was very certain in Poe's whimsical mind set. "Nikita," she repeated the name given to her by that musical coyote girl, not pausing for a confirmation before cutting away into a heavy sigh and a backwards glance. "Well, the chicken's out of the bag," she misquoted, putting a hand back on one round hip. "I may as well come out with it. I'm your stalker, Mr. Booth. And I've come here to finally get what I've always wanted." She looked back at him with a dramatic, hard stare that suddenly lifted over his brow. "That brilliant hat," she said firmly, taking a quick hold of his arm for balance and propulsion when she hopped up and tried bopping the underside of the hat's brim with her other hand.
