Greta still looks a bit dubious, but relents, taking the offered parcel. She's doing better than she has been, her clothes no longer hanging as loosely as they did at her worst. The prospect of a dog has proven to be rather invigorating. But she could still stand to eat more, and it's not as if the girl will be horribly offended if she ends up not liking the flavor combination.

She's gingerly unwrapping the sandwich when Aggie floats the book out into the air before them. Open displays of magic have become more commonplace -- working with Baz and Simon would do that -- but she's still faintly shocked to see it. The book is a sight, too: it looks like the sort of volume she might have owned. It's clearly old and well-worn, but fashioned in a manner more akin to her own time than what you might find at a bookshop in Darrow.

"It's beautiful," she says, sandwich momentarily forgotten. Is her story in there? She doubts it, but the idea is hard to shake. "May I?" she asks, lifting a hand, but not presuming to grab it. It clearly means something to the girl, and even if it didn't, it would be foolish to just stick her hand in that glow of power surrounding the book.