It is a perfectly reasonable question undercut promptly by a honking sound of dismay as Wysteria processes what exactly owns that little questing tickle of tongue and is sliding free of Richard's sleeve after it. Her elbow jerks in his, threatening - if the word might be so misapplied - to separate from the force of a brief but visibly powerful wave of alarm.

The last time she'd seen a snake so close, it had been in the company of a few hundred others like it at the bottom of a pit. One develops certain disinclinations under such circumstances.

The hilarious contortion act involved with keeping his arm trapped and her hand bent away from the snake mercifully slows her down long enough to give him a distracted answer - "I believe it's a shortcut to a courtyard." - before gingerly, gingerly, Wysteria untwists her pretzeled arm to allow her fingers to stray back for the little garter snake's inspection.