Miksa, having the advantage of being on the first floor, had beaten Oliver to the park. She was dressed simply, in a tank and flowing skirt, and she was sitting at the edge of the largest, most populated fountain in the park. It was late afternoon, and the park wasn't as crowded as it had been the last time she'd been there - there were few children around, no wolves, and the older couples and runners hadn't taken any real notice of her yet.
In her hand she held a traditional, Aleutian flute, and she brought it to her lips and played a soft tune, the kind intended to summon, and she watched.
She knew Oliver for one reason: Because of the way he pinched his nose to avoid tension, and she stood and walked toward him. If it wasn't him, she would feel no embarrassment or guilt, and she would simply look some more.