Isabela was walking down the street in a city called Washington, or so the portkey had told her when it had dumped her there. It felt strange to be in a proper city, let alone one so modern. She felt out of place and exposed - especially since she had no weapon bigger than a flick-knife in her boot. But at the same time, the place was pretty. She ducked into what looked like a bar, offering food and beverages - she was disappointed not to see whisky on the menu, but oh, well. She stood at the counter, debating what to order, not sure what half of everything was.