As soon as Laertes finishes dropping off Sagramore's liquor, he hurries out to the greenhouse. He's not panicking, exactly--he knows that Magnus is well on the mend--but he keenly feels the place where panic would be. He swings open the greenhouse door with more force than necessary, enough that it swings back hard and rattles the glass of the building.

And there is Magnus, hand upon the kumquat tree's fine-grained bark, in the shade of its leathery leaves. Through that shadow, the light of him shines like a beacon.

"Magnus," calls Laertes, doing his best to pretend that he didn't just hustle across the snow to get here. "Thou lookest well."