It's the loud noise, the shriek, that instantly draws Luther's attention — all of him sharpening to attention like a hunting hound hearing the whistle of his master, calling him to heel. He swivels in his seat to look back at the child, searching for what could be wrong: raised voices could mean an emergency, could mean someone in danger, and so Number One snaps into place. His muscles tighten and she can see his legs gathering underneath him, as if he's ready to spring out of his seat.

But it's not an emergency, and no one is dying, and everything is fine.

"Princess?" Luther repeats dumbly, then glances back at Allison. Oh. Right. The ballgown. Like something out of the picture books. He continues, though, as if on autopilot: "She's not—"

Thankfully, he's interrupted before he can puncture the illusion and crush some poor random innocent child's dreams.