Honestly, Conall didn’t think her hostility would have turned to forgiveness quite as quickly if she had realised that the snake that had slipped about her neck being here was his fault. But, naturally, she didn’t have a great deal of breathing room to think, and her first priority was evidently not dying. (A sensible priority to have.)

“I’ll do my best,” Conall muttered. He ventured his hand, slowly, carefully, nearer to the orange snakeskin at her neck, hoping to slip his hand in between it and her so that it would not be able to constrict her throat if it made a move now. It was the right head, or the leftmost from his vantagepoint - if only he were able to see the heads (they had ducked down under her collar; he could see the snake writhing now, picking up in pace as though it had new purpose) - that was the planner, after all. “I’m going to grab it, and pull,” he murmured in her ear in warning, waiting for his moment; “but it’s got three heads. Only one’s dangerous. Don’t let the right one near you if you can help it.” With that, he reached under her collar, gripped what he could reach of the creature with both hands, and pulled forcefully, trying to tug it all the way off her and out.

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