If the surgery garners no visible approval from her, it also garners no marked disapproval. Woe has the distinct air of one who would waste no time in making her displeasure at anything clear if she felt it, so that might pass for a kind of praise.

Or she's simply focused on the matter at hand, tracing the hopping of his Omen with stormy, wary gaze. There is something of the Seventh to all of this, the elegance and mystery of mask and rose and flighted thing. It does not put her in an entirely terrible frame of mind.

"A secluded place," she informs him, in tones of none of your business, "Rest assured, as I've said, they will be sufficiently doused. This is a considerable amount of growth in that short a time. This - 'Pthumerian' - was it the trigger for this profusion?"