At Mishka's words, the ghost materialized a few feet away from her, the spectral being resembling a wispy, semi-transparent, and ethereal version of the late Lord Burnside.

The ghost moved about Mishka, not touching her, but examining her grafted wings and arm. "Abigail did this? Godwin's little girl?" The ghost sounded incredulous, before muttering to itself "Gods but she's good."

The ghost went on, it's voice less grumpy, and more mournful now. "Is she well? She is a lovely girl. How is her father? The pigheaded dolts from the churches haven't been bothering them, I hope?"