Strange has to bite back his amusement, stifling a strangled laugh in the back of his throat, so that by the time they look back at him he’s rearranged his facial expression to look very serious and not at all laughing at their misfortune.

The maids are returning, carrying armfuls of bedsheets that they would ordinarily launder and tuck into beds, now instead made into makeshift nets to catch the eventual falling guests. The doctor stands in the middle of the room on the table, tall enough to get a good view of the rock spires; but the ballroom’s big enough that there’s no simply reaching up and grabbing for the lost guests.

“If we have the rest of you on trampoline duty, von Skraedder,” he starts, wry, “I could carry the rope up there with magic.”

The majordomo’s face is scandalised, disgusted, but also: regretfully accepting their fate. Any port in a storm.