Abigail Widdowson is not someone who Lancelot had expected to bump into. Especially not while out shopping. He recognises her from the Harvest Festival -- for he had been there, encouraging Faolan to take part, and Abigail had made rather an impact. He smiles at her, starts as he realises they're about to be run over by another mass of people and gently touches a hand to her arm to warn her of the three-child buggy about to plough past. If she's sensitive to such things she can probably feel the fae magic coursing through him, bright and summery despite the winter weather.

"I should have expect it would be this way, but I suppose I had hope I might miss the rush. You're... forgive me, Miss Widdowson isn't it?"