Relieved by these signs of life—including, after some strategic wriggling, visual confirmation—Viktor now relaxes into sounding a little pleased, actually, despite the tendril unfurling across his neck like a snake. Carefully pulling it away,

"Indeed. It seemed not even Professor Bonheur was expecting such a vigorous result."

From the direction of his voice, as far as Strange and his obscuring cloak are concerned, comes indistinct activity: rustling foliage, the soft snapping of petioles as stems are pulled through the tangle.

"But will it last?"

Next a pause, then a sudden swish of leaves,

then the sound of Viktor's crutch striking and rattling to rest on the floor.

"That's the real question."