[As she's trying to retrieve her head from wherever it's wandered, she appreciates that she's stumbled into the company of a man of at least moderate intellect. This could be going much worse.]

Anything standing out in any way...

[Her injured - is that even the right word? - arm is held stiffly at her side as she follows him up the stairs, ever mindful of any odd bodily sensations. But it seems as if it's restricted to that one arm for the time being.

As they ascend to the attic, Lysithea will immediately set to work. She has three good limbs still, after all.]

You know, in story books, it's always something like 'replacing the doll on the chair with the secret pressure plate' or 'tapping the right combination of books on the bookshelf'.