Bluebell flicks an ear, casting a sly glance at Noínín as she leads him through the manor. "Try to remember the way," she murmurs. "The halls shift when you aren’t looking. Or maybe they don’t, and I just enjoy watching newcomers wander in circles."
She stops outside a wooden door, resting a delicate hand against it. "The mews," she says with clear distaste. "Very dignified. Very useful. very well-trained, very noble, and very, very sharp.." She shudders, flicking her fluffy tail in agitation before moving on.
“The stables are this way. At least the horses don’t hunt you.” There’s a pause as they pass a low, fenced area where hunting hounds stretch and doze. Bluebell's nose wrinkles. "And that—that’s the kennel. We don’t talk about the kennel." She sidesteps a little, lowering her voice conspiratorially. "If they ever ask you to ‘fetch,’ don’t do it."
A long pause, then, “Come along, little bardling,” she muses, already drifting toward the kitchens. "You’ll need a proper meal if you're to survive your probation!" And he is left on his own - well, not quite, there is a plate of cookies.