The name meant nothing at least...not immediately. Eidola watched him with her quiet, lingering stare of someone trying to fit a piece into a puzzle without knowing what the finished picture was supposed to look like. There was something familiar about the name, but familiarity was a difficult thing for her. Sometimes memories belonged to her, but sometimes they belonged to the voices and sometimes she remembered things that had never happened at all.

Her head tilted Foxglove... she repeated softly. Avon meant more and her ears shifted forward, recognition slowly beginning to gather across her features. My sisters live in Avon...and my mother Eidola's brows pinched as she looked at him again, an almost uncomfortable amount of concentration as she searched his face for something she ought to know. She had been little when everything had happened. Little enough that the memories she possessed of those years came in pieces: her mother's warmth, Archon's scent, Kyros beside her, the terrible understanding that something was changing without possessing the language to understand what.

There had been anger and fear, these were the things she remembered. Not the tangible scenes, but the feelings that came along with them. ... I think I know your name, she mused hesitantly. Slowly she stepped closer, keeping several lengths between them. Her eyes wandered briefly toward the flowers he had set aside before returning to him. But I don't remember... you...

There was something apologetic in the way she said it, as though she worried forgetting him might be rude. A whisper brushed close to her ear, He knows your mother. she only let her ears flick back a this.