Eva fidgets too. She's always fidgeting, or picking at something, or twirling her hair around, or humming to herself. Since the quiet is so overwhelming it seems almost sacrosanct, humming and singing seems out of the questions, so she's got her free hand tugging at the threads of her jacket. It's a nice little reminder - you are free, you can move, you can expend all your energy doing the stupidest things Edriss would never let you do - and it rarely fails to ratchet her internal tension down just a jot. And she's still tense.

She has the feeling that the Doctor doesn't fidget to remind himself of freedom.

"What's wrong?" she asks, hushed.

There's a Robert Frost poem that she doesn't especially like that starts a little like the scenario they've found themselves in. The more she thinks about it, the more she feels that the quiet isn't the unusual part of this place - it's the normality of it. It's almost mundane, and the Doctor's abode never seems anything like that. She puts her hand to the gun in her holster, just in case.