The shape jerks back, as if surprised at being caught out. She half-expects it to rally and rush toward her, finish whatever grim business it's come here to do. Why is this happening to her? What is it? She can't tear her eyes away from it, even as the settling flour makes its shape harder to pick out. One hand gropes blindly at the counter behind her for a moment before seizing the handle of a bread knife, and she points it at the fading shape defensively.

"Um." It's fading further without the flour dust to define it, and she shifts nervously. Seeing it is frightening, not seeing it is worse. God, what if it starts moving around? It could end up anywhere, and she'd have no idea. "Ummmm," she says again, more frantic and keening this time, before making a mad dart towards the island and swatting over the bag of flour. Then she skips back again, knife clutched in both hands.

It's a solid blow, and the bag both coughs out a large puff of white dust and sends some of what already covered the counter floating back into the air. The shape is where she left it, still standing beside the island, and it's... it's just standing there, arms raised in an unmistakably pacifying gesture. As if she's scared it.

Greta's brow furrows, and the knife dips for a moment. "I--" Well, she's not going to apologize. Nor is she relinquishing the upper hand, if she actually has it. She lifts the knife again, eyes narrowing. "What do you want?"