"Aye-aye, Your Majesty," Janet says, probably mixing up nautical respect and royal respect in a way you're not really supposed to do. Whatever. She settles her fingers into the spaces between Susan's and pulls her onward, toward the welters field. It's actually made progress, slow and steady, as Janet has hacked her way through the stupid fishbowl-world Circumstances to turn one square into sand, another into continual fire, another into perfectly geometrical water, et cetera.