Ripley. The names people have come up with over the centuries certainly are interesting. "I'm Greta," she says in return, reaching out to let Ripley grab ahold of her finger. "It's a pleasure to meet you both."

Ten months is rather close to how old her son would've been, if he'd come through with her. Sometimes she wishes he had. It would've been hard, looking after him on her own, but it wouldn't have been so different from how things were back home (except back home, no one was dropping dozens of gold pieces into their till every month as a matter of course, so in that respect, it might even have been easier). Maybe it's for the best that he didn't, but looking at Ripley, it's impossible not to think about how much time she's missed with him.

"She is entirely adorable," Greta informs him, grinning as the girl tugs on her hand. "Mine would be about her age, if he was here." She hitches her shoulders in a little shrug, not wanting to seem as if she's fishing for sympathy. There's certainly nothing Jesse could do about the whole strange situation.