With the air of a slightly ill child being forced to down a measure of bitter tasting tonic (queasy look included), Wysteria's hand tightens to a vice grip on Richard's in place of flinching backwards. And while the cuff of her sleeve is trimmed rather close, the rest beyond it is of a perfectly welcoming dimension for the little serpent to worm her way into. In short order, the snake has disappeared from view entirely, presumably worked its way up Wysteria's arm and settled somewhere more comfortable.

She has only gone a few shades paler than chalk white in the process.

"Very good care, yes," she says absently. There's a snake on her but it's fine because it's not really a snake. "And if there is any particular thing she cares for - a sunny rock now and again, for example, I would be happy to indulge her."