River brushes a hand down a vertical support beam, and then steps daintily around it with her hand curled on an edge for balance; it's a dancer's move, or would be with the slightest bit more flair.

But it doesn't, in this moment, have that flair. Havelock isn't wrong.

She paces down the rafter towards him. A yard or so from his outstretched foot, she crouches comfortably down on one knee, folding forward to rest her palms against wood.