"Did my father set you to spy on me?" she demanded. The "set" and "spy" were sheer hiss.
"No," he replied chokingly, not wanting his Adam's apple to protrude.
"Then why are you here," she demanded, advancing the knife a bit, "lurking in the dark?"
"Your father locked me in," he protested, leaning backward.
"Ishtar! Is he doing that to his patients, too?" she commented. Her accents were a bit incredulous, but she did drop the knife to an easy, on guard position, which also caused her cape to fall around her modestly.
"Locked me in and turned off the lights," Phil reaffirmed.
She slitted her long-lashed eyes thoughtfully. "I can almost believe the first part of that," she said. "He often sends his patients in here for observation."
"Observation?"
She jerked a silver-fanged thumb at the ceiling. "That mirror's transparent from above. He likes to watch what his patients do when they think they're alone, either singly or by couples. Olympian voyeur! Well, I marked him tonight." And she flashed the claws, which were faintly stained with reddish brown.
Phil felt a little sick but took the opportunity to ask, "If that mirror's transparent from above, why didn't you see me when he locked me in here?"