Alistair knows he shouldn't laugh. Laughing at strangers is rude; laughing at strangers he knows are fairly important people is probably stupid. For the sake of good manners and not being stupid, he manages to keep it to a quiet, choked-off sputter of air in his throat and his nose.

"It was a good idea," he offers, from his safe distance away, through the trees. He's a late addition to the search party, but he's here now. He's helping. Not just laughing. He crunches over through the snow toward her, eyeing the flock that's swarmed her offering in search of one with a letter. "Or half of a good idea. There is another half, right?"

Mishap with the swam of birds aside, Alistair imagines the Grand Enchanter is a touch too dignified to try pouncing bodily on a raven in the snow. But maybe she isn't. He doesn't know her at all.