At first, the pale wisp is nearly motionless, adrift on a pocket of air just outside the window. Then it shudders, a nod of approval, and carefully gives the woman a wide berth as it swishes past her and around the nearest corner.

"You're smarter than you look," rings a silky, ungracious voice. "A little." The voice belongs to a man, tall, thin, pale, resplendent in red and gold from head to toe, with a look of utter confidence and mild boredom marring his youthful face. In his upturned palm floats one of those very same mist sentinels, but this one has, on full display, a reflection flickering within it -- a film reel, a reenactment, a mirror of what it has seen and traversed. The Madame can see various images of the compound and its inhabitants flitting by, with a special emphasis on any apparent magical objects, wizards, and witches. It is clear where this man's interests lie.

He abruptly closes his fist and allows the sentinel to dissipate with a pop. His cold eyes sweep the woman up and down, and he frowns.

"Was that a cantrip, or did you really mean to recklessly burn the hall down for a harmless sentinel?" he demands.