She notices that another person is in the carriage, but ignores them because they’re a good distance away and it’s not like she’s blocking the path. That is, until they speak.

Rose knows that voice in her bones. It’s only years (centuries) of practice that keep her head from snapping up like a wolf that’s caught a scent. Instead, she shifts her gaze slightly to catch him in her peripheral vision. The hair, the clothes... She can see enough to know that this isn’t the one she’s been looking for. It never is. The disappointment, as always, stings but she’s long since learned to push past it.

“Really?” She asks, playing along. She tilts her head, chin in hand in the near-universal posture of thinking. “Do you think it’s the strong silent type?”