Even upon seeing that her company is a mild, nervous-looking teenager, Rowena doesn't drop her knife; a bit of ambient light glinting off the blade reveals that her hand is shaking slightly as she clutches it. Merton may not look like a star quarterback, but Rowena's five foot two and would probably weigh in about a hundred pounds soaking wet, and at lest twenty of those pounds would be hair. And things have not, recently, gone well for her in moments of helplessness.

She can still remember the sound of her skin splitting against her cheekbone as someone stamped on her face, the pop of an eye going blind. Without her magic, she has no defense but bravado, and it is, ironically, that insecure that fortifies her voice from shaking.

"Good. Better for both of us, I believe, if we're here to cooperate instead of compete in this situation. I'm Rowena." She gestures to the picture projecting on the screen of the award-winning teen filmmaker. "And that lad's Jack Nichols. Have you seen him?"