"You know that I have never been one given to superstition," Cyrus speaks: slow, deliberate with his words. "She calls herself a woman. She appears, to the eye, to be a woman, if only from the chin down. I could scarcely guess at what else she might be."

He leans back in his seat; absently, he stares up at the ceiling.

"And yet..." He trails off, allowing the implication to hang where he'd left it. When he finally turns back to Mycroft, he looks uneasy.

"I don't wish to stay here long enough to find out."