What does Odile do when she sees a lonely, confused blonde walk around the snow, looking decidedly outlandish, decidedly familiar. Odile herself had once come to this dimension, uninvited and unwelcome, clad like a stranger and speaking like a poem in ink, out of time, out of place. She knows the looks of it.

Newness. The woman reeks of newness. Fresh snow, untouched ice. Smiling sharply, she waits in the shadows until the shape of the girl has passed her by, then she steps up behind her, speaking to her back, speaking to the luxurious dress she's wearing, the stoic way she carries herself.

Familiar, indeed.

"What are you seeking in this place that's obviously not home to you?"

What does anyone seek in unfamiliar places? The familiar. That's what they seek, every single one of them.