The one guard who has been primed to make something of an intruder, and is either more suspicious or more quick on his feet than his crumpled companion had been. (Or merely lucky. Let's not count that one out.)

He turns smartly on his heel away from Tony and toward that comedic thunk, a hand moving not to the less than decorative sword at his hip but snatch free a vial from his bandolier. The delicate glass is crushed. What spills out of it isn't the sand or the chalk or the little bits of gravel that had lived in it prior, but a flock of small startled birds bursting from between out from between the fingers in Ellis' direction—the world's most baffling smoke screen, apparently, for now he makes to draw the sword.

(Somewhere behind the curtain, Wysteria is very steadfast about holding her place despite the abrupt cacophony of flapping wings. Let no one say she has not become a very mature and respectable young lady who knows the value of occasionally following the direction of others with more expertise than her in particular fields such as clobbering people with books and not getting stabbed.)