There's a squawk and a rustle from the ivy in response to hearing her name - that's it, she's caught, oh no - before Greta registers whose voice it was. Iman. Iman's here? Her approaching friend gets a bewildered look as her brain sluggishly switches gears. If Iman is here, then she's not home, not really trespassing in some royal garden. They're dreaming.

That's a relief. Well, the garden's presumed lack of ownership is, anyway.

"Iman!" She belatedly returns the grin, taking Iman's hands - she has both of them again! - and letting her friend draw her out into the sunlight. Her gaze drops, both in response to the glare and in general embarrassment. (There would be more of the latter if she knew just how much greenery was currently caught in her hair.) "I was so certain I was trespassing," she admits, smiling down at the new-old symmetry of Iman's hands, giving the left one a fond brush with her thumb. "Thought you might be a royal guardsman for half a moment, there."