"Heavy rope. What a flattering comparison." She casts a sidelong look at Strange, the inherent silliness of this and of biannual mid-summer mummery converting some portion of that tension into humor. "Did von Skraedder throw them with her arms? A shame she's not with us."

She surveys the site again, one hand on hip, fingers curling in the dark cotton of her shirt. "There's little room for error with that force. The ceiling, the drop off to the side, the explosive."