[The door is shut most resolutely behind him. She puts her back to it from good measure, and so presents no obstacle to his observation of the room.

It is, despite a certain frantic effort to tidy, rather the definition of disorderly. The little writing desk is bursting with papers, and a number of illustrations have been pinned above it; a pile of books, a great collection of correspondence, and a small figurine of a dog take up nearly all the real estate on the side table; a traveling case is still open in one corner of the room, its contents of clay jars and vials and all the dreadful things contained therein spilling out in every direction. There is a corner of fabric poking out from under the lip of the trunk at the foot of the bed; the bed itself has has been hastily made, and from here she can see the ribbons of her boot laces poking out from under the covers where she'd thoughtlessly thrust them.

There is, she realizes, a dirty plate in the narrow window sill. Wysteria detects a portion of her soul evacuating her body at the sight of it.]

The snake is here, de Foncé, [she exclaims, thrusting her hand toward him. Which seems like an insane thing to say, save that there is indeed a little forked black tongue questing beyond the edge of her sleeve's cuff.] She prefers to travel about the arm or shoulders. And thank you. For your prompt consideration of the subject.