As she relented her shoes (old habit.) and left them by the door, the velvet flat socks gripping her feet were not to be trusted on the slippery floor. She didn't seem to worry for it. The wraiths dim steps were calculating, curious, creeping; her hands thrilled out to touch the walls with slender, wondering fingers, and to slowly wither her side against the cold wall to feel the freeze on the side of her face. Mindfully, she was noting all the other furniture and decorations she would touch next.
"Ice." She liked chewing on it.
The black-lace puppet had never seen anything like this in her life. Not in person. Not outside of a museum. Where they'd kept her hadn't been this striking, certainly not as pretty, but as monstrous and accommodating for the medicated shamble of issued slippers, the clench of angry fists and moaned apologies at the faithless moon, yes. Perhaps the worming sense of awe she felt sliding, poking through her ribcage weren't ribbons of hunger but of admiration. She wouldn't be able to tell. Anything she 'felt' these days was of the same tangle as everything else she felt. It was all the same to her.
Her back faded against the wall and continued to move along it like a devils spy.