[once they've got another door between themselves and whatever's lurking outside practicing the piano, she straightens up and lets her voice rise above a whisper. She scans the room for anything unpleasant, her ears turning this way and that. Flatly:]

If they're too difficult, I could probably carry you. And stop calling me that; my name isn't "Hop Along". It's Freya.

[she takes out her piece of paper. There's a map drawn on it, but it isn't detailed, and she looks frustrated when she pockets it again. Thick dust muffles their footsteps; the only music that's been made in this room lately is the draft blowing through the risers.]

Have you got a name, or should I make one up for you?