She's relieved when she can feel Altaïr move, doing what he can to keep them upright so she can keep them going. It's not much, but under the circumstances she's glad for any bit of leverage he can provide. As a whole, their journey to the shore is much wetter and with far fewer explosions or instances of crumbling masonry than when they fled the Archive on Cyprus, but their teamwork yields the same result. Only when they're both fully above the waterline does she let go, crouching and coughing. He isn't the only one to have swallowed seawater.

He asks the obvious question and the moment stretches out before she answers. "Far off course, I think."

No, she knows. Maria doesn't have a strong sense of how much time has passed since she told herself how to open her eyes and move her limbs on this very beach, but she was able to at least begin to reorient herself, and to hear some of what their greeters had to say. But she'd been so dazed, and there had been others to see to, and she hadn't come close to grasping it all. Certainly she couldn't explain it to Altaïr.

Pushing herself to her feet, she makes for the bag and robe she'd dropped upon spotting him. "Here," she says, handing him the thin garment. It's still damp from when she'd worn it, and may or may not be too small for him, but it's large enough for Altaïr to dry off and cover himself.