Yelena tries, for a moment, to track the flood of shapes, strange greyscale images that distort the world seen through them in a way that makes her eyes ache. One lingers, an elderly woman, and she forces herself to focus on that one, not yet noticing the way the colour has leeched from the candlelight, from her companions' clothing.

"Yes, but we are very turned around," she says. "Can you point us in the right direction?"