Greta leans - well, keels - against the arm of the couch, her flushed face propped in one hand as she titters helplessly. "And there were so many of them!" More than a pie of that size should have been able to hold, but, well, that's magic for you.

"But I'll have you know," she adds in a more serious tone, sitting up and patting Iman's shin in a now-you-listen-here sort of way, "that my pies have never turned to birds." She convulses with a barely-suppressed laugh, then adds, "Ever." And then she lolls back onto the arm of the couch, cackling.

This is nice. Look at how happy Iman is! Greta's so glad they're doing this. Once she's recovered herself somewhat, she says, "I don't think any world makes sense. They're all strange. This one's strange." They can both agree on that one, she's certain, and she gives Iman's leg a judicious little pat.