“Out she comes as white as snow, with rings on her fingers and bells on her toes. Ol’ Jenny Murray says she’ll die, if she doesn’t catch the fella with the roving eye!” That seemed to tear it. The spectres’ dance only seemed to increase in vigor and power as the song rolled on. Handy found himself compelled to sing louder and louder, the things above him growing more restless while the dance became faster and faster. Each footstep he made was punctuated not only by bursts of magical light but also the shuffling sound of paper rolling along paper, like a flurry of manuscripts caught in a strong draft. But as the song increased in volume and the dance became more energetic, it became evident that far from being placated, the things above were becoming aggravated. The pale blue light interrupted by starbursts of incandescent white, like magnesium flares in a dimly lit room spoiled their rest, the dancing of their entertainment too energetic, too… happy, and the singing was too loud, it simply would not do. With another sound of tearing meat, a screech and the feeling of a clammy claw seizing the back of his neck, Handy knew he was doomed.