"Have you really." Psyche looks at him thoughtfully. "That's a lovely-sounding description. I wonder just what it is that you can't identify." There are any number of things it might be, of course: the scent, lingering on her hands, of the poppies and pomegranetes she'd been bringing Persephone; the asphodel she'd used to cross over (or at least try) to the Underworld, the scent of the roses which were her husband's favorite offering. Or the delicious odor of nektar and ambrosia which she herself had never quite been able to describe...but it would be filtered through Macavity's own senses, wouldn't it, so who knew what he was really picking up from her.

"At any rate. As it looks as though we're all here for at least a little while, do you have any preference whereabouts you'd like to stay?"