"Second oldest," Greta says after a moment's thought. "Of the two of us, here. I beat you by a day." Given that the Balladeer's actual age is a mystery, that seems as good a milestone to judge by as any. Not that it matters, really, what he might be second of. She's getting distracted.

What were they talking about? Magic, that's right, and she hums knowingly into her glass when he mentions his song-related abilities. The Rift might dish out magical powers, but the Balladeer's always spoken of that one as if it's one he's always had. And that makes sense. It's not as if she found him clutching his head over all the foreign melodies he was suddenly hearing.

"See?" she says. "Maybe you're magic, or... I don't know." She's back to gesturing with her glass, a bit more expansively now, but it's okay because the glass is emptier. She won't spill on his couch. "Different. Special." She takes a pensive sip. "I s'pose you'd have to be, if you're a narrator."