"People live by daylight, Stephanie," Marchande says.
The bus had been a chance to order the mind. Like grasping a bunch of glass shards and amazingly holding a bottle in your hand. Being back wasn't going to be easy - how could she have expected it to be so? She not only had to be an adult, not just a student coasting along on her father's money, but she had to lead a group of women just as torn up as she was, while trying to be human when every smell jumped out at her, when every command made her want to obey, when her tail made sitting on the bus seats uncomfortable and she had to stand. But she had the bottle now. The suit held everything together.
She hesitates at the doorframe, thinking very quick thoughts, thoughts like: isn't there something special about doors? Something, you're not supposed to go inside, or is that just under a horseshoe? Ordinary people can't do that. But the woman here isn't likely to be ordinary. But she might know the lost if they talked right.
"Storm-tossed travelers," Marchande says, "blown by the spring winds to your door this evening. Might we enter in?" She raps her knuckles on the doorframe, smiling. Is this right?