The formality of her name in beautiful French calmed her somewhat. The shame she felt when she saw an elderly librarian glaring at her did far better. A breath, while she dashed the wetness from under her eyes, and another breath to steady herself again. She focused instead on what Monsieur Crowley told her.
It seemed all too strange to be real, to be true. But she could tell by his expression - a matter-of-fact, lineless face - that he was not saying anything he didn't believe himself. Either that, or he was a very, very adept liar. She didn't allow the thought to linger. He'd been kind to her. She massaged her ankle. He had no reason to be kind, but here he was, among the rest of the patrons in the library, giving her the only thing he could: information.
So there was no way for her to find her way home. If he was to be believed - and she did believe him, she found - then she was at the mercy of a city with a soul. A city with a will. She'd never conjured any such thing in her own imagination, and had no idea how to approach such a thing.
"Are there ways to appeal? To... To try to.... talk to it..?"
Oh, the idea seemed ridiculous. Talk to a city?
But it was the best idea she could find in her scattered mind. She rubbed at her forehead, then returned her fingers again to their massaging. The pain was easing now.