@faieth
The city is something that both makes his heart itch and satisfies a want to explore in him; he's kept himself busy enough to not mind the way he dislikes the absence of the sage, of Rutile and Mitile, of the people who - whether he understands it or not - he thinks well of. He researches - there's a lot to learn and to understand, now trapped in the same situation they'd found the sage in so very recently. He understands the homesickness they'd felt, just a bit - a wonder, given he'd thought himself so far removed from all that he'd never feel anything like it again.
Figaro can't help the influence of the sage that makes him take notes, a journal stacked atop the books where he keeps notes on what he's learn and seen, as if to tell them, as if to prove he's kept up his job as their conductor. Still, there's absolutely no way he wouldn't freeze when he sees a familiar gloomy presence, wouldn't recognize it like his own hand. After four hundred years, what was another week or two?
"Oh, Faust?" He laughs, his tone light, eyes sparkling despite himself, as he approaches. The books get tucked into his bag, instead of carried in his hands, if only so he'll have the chance to catch her if she tries to avoid him.
Honestly, he's a little prepared for that to be how she handles this - but he's not a pro at shoving his foot in her door to keep her from closing it for no reason.
