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There is a remarkably large plant in Havelock's bedroom.

It also seems to be alive, and it has just cut him off from the doorway to lessen his chances of escape. And escape certainly seems the wisest course of action as he has little idea how to kill the thing, and even as he pauses, tentacles are snaking towards him. He bites his lip and pulls out a knife, wondering how tough the things likely are, if they move unaided...

Then one darts downwards, wrapping around his ankle, and Havelock answers his own silent question by slicing hard through the tendril, which recoils, dripping greenish fluid. Others whip out towards him, seeking vengeance.

He sets his teeth grimly and makes a break for it, cutting what he can, attempting to tear past those he cannot.

It's a losing battle.

This may be a problem.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

People are so slow.

"You were being," Mary informs him, "held prisoner by a giant plant."

"It's dead now," Edward points out, helpfully, as he kicks at some of the foam to clear a path.

Whatever could be in that dresser over there?

"Reckon it can't hold him prisoner anymore."

"Yes, but he ought to leave," Mary says, impatiently, "because if he is still here when Puck comes back he will likely try again, and then it will all have been for nothing to get him out of the plant in the first place."

Mary does not appreciate her hard plant-charring effort going to waste.

...

Well, quite.

"Now my hands are free, I imagine I stand a marginally better chance," says Havelock mildly.

So mildly that it's his version of collapsing with laughter.

Edward eyes Havelock critically.

"Reckon he should at least wash up first," he says to Mary. "Or else there'll be a trail, right? Plant guts and milkshake."

"I expect your hands were free when the plant first attacked, too," Mary mutters, but nods, grudgingly.

"That is sensible, I suppose. We all ought to leave fast after we have searched. He will not be happy when he comes back to see that his room has been burned, and likely" she predicts, dourly, "he will turn us all into rocks."

"What are we searching for?" asks Havelock seriously.

Being turned into rocks sounds... dangerous! Yes!

"Plants," says the little boy, matter-of-factly. "Dangerous sorts. You use 'em to make love potions and all that-- or at least Puck does it. We don't."

"We want to make sure he does not," Mary adds, pushing her way through the foam towards the dresser.

She pulls the drawer open, and her eyes sharpen.

"Like these."

The packets of dried plants certainly look mysterious and dangerous . . .

Havelock carefully says nothing.

Well. They're not his, but they probably won't hurt her unless she eats them.

Besides, he rather wants to see how this goes.

He wrinkles up his nose, peering over Mary's shoulder.

"That's a magic plant?"

"It might be. Why else should he have it?"

Mary does not think that Puck is whipping up delicious dinners with oregano in his spare time.

"In any case I am sure he means to do something awful with it, so."

She pockets the bag and starts trekking back towards the exit.

Havelock spares a sidelong glance for Puck, but makes no move to stop her, instead following along behind.

Puck glances back, flashing a winsome smile before speeding up to catch up with Mary.

"Reckon you don't care about leavin' footprints, then," he says pointedly. "A bunch of milkshake shows up in 'is room, y'think he won't follow it out?"

"He won't know whose feet it is," Mary retorts, and then looks down at her boots, rather dubiously.

Are they very recognizable?

"We can wipe them off once we are out of the room so he will not be able to follow."

"Perhaps take them off, and carry them," Havelock suggests helpfully.

Master of stealth here, y'see.

"Guess so," he says, sulkily.

A sulky pause ensues.

"Think we got all the plants?"

Mary looks around.

"Do you see another place to hide them?"

He makes a face.

"Could be anywhere. Under the floorboards, maybe. Or stitched up in the mattress."

Havelock continues to say nothing.

Although now he's wondering just how many packages of mysterious herbs Puck could have planted in an afternoon.

"Under the floorboards there is only the floor below," Mary says, scornfully.

(Mary does not know very much about construction.)

"They might be in the mattress, though -"

She turns to look at it, and then holds out a hand, imperiously.

"Has anyone got a knife?"

Ask a silly question, Mary.

One appears in Havelock's hand as an eyebrow raises on his face.

He should really stop them ripping up his mattress, but he's entirely too amused to be bothered.

"'Nks," says the boy, snatching it and stabbing at the mattress enthusiastically. With a loud tear, the casing starts to give, stuffing and springs starting to spill out. This is not great when combined with residual cleaning milkshake.

Puck starts to pull the stuff out in handfuls, flinging it carelessly onto the floor.

"I don't see anythin' yet ..."

Mary looks at the fluff-and-milkshake-covered floor - half in distaste, half in schadenfreude-related smugness.

"He is going to have an awful mess to clean up when he gets back - and serve him right."

"Too right," the boy agrees cheerfully, artfully setting a mattress coil down on the sodden, depressing mess of ex-killer plant.

"Shame we won't get to see the look on his face, eh?"