"Ah — !" A flurry of motion sends her driving up, hands flapping to fit a chicken's squabbles. "Stop right there!"

A pause, while the paint-stained figure before him grapples briefly with an upended easel — there we go. Right. Vida tries again, awkwardly shuffles her sleeves back, (slops veridium green all over one in the process),

"My, ah, my apologies Monsieur. Do not move a muscle —" She hastens to add. "— Please."

The cause for all this fuss isn't immediately apparent, but whatever it is, it must be terribly important.