"Oh I think you'll find there's nothing here outside my reach, Mister Vakarian," Shepard says, and then clears her throat at Dean's suggestion— yeah, alright. Focus, "...Keep your ears open. We don't want to miss the target."

The spirit boards, of course, are at the far end of the museum. It was the old trick: with the recent fuss, and the turning of the seasons, it behooved the prudent curator to put the most desirous artifacts near the back. And if that should (by purest coincidence) parade guests past every other worthy display, including the gift shop? All to the good, surely.

Doesn't make for a pleasant walk, though.

Shepard's used to moving in near-dark, and the floor is level and smooth— she stumbles, turning a corner, over the outstretched hand of a prone wax figure, reaching out from below a display-case. Cursing, she briefly lights the area in a flash of blue— her biotic corona. The pale, gormless stare of the waxen face looks back at her, a reflection of blue fire dancing briefly in its glassy eyes until the light fades, and it's only visible in silhouette against the white-tile floor. A child-sized replica, doubtless of some royal so-and-so important to some political something; she hadn't gotten a very good look.

"...Son of a bitch," Shepard mutters, "Well, that's one."