Some strange mystical force is at work. That little sparkle of electrical energy, trapped now in an ethereal bubble of Bill's willpower, ripples and flickers with Verity's laugh. She's happy? It seems happy. Happy happy, joy joy. Bill's hard expression of concentration softens. This is going so well; he clutches his mind's hands to his chest, so to speak. So captured in the interaction with raw lightning, Verity might not even notice. Her one special spark of receptive energy doesn't: such was the point of blocking out all of existence from its attention.

"Now, open thy eyes slowly, mine compeer." Just a little twinkle, a little glimmer of crackling blue electricity in a sphere the size of a beach ball. It is in the space between Bill and Verity, now, having come such a long way so quickly. Her joy feeds its behavior, and Bill hopes it will feedback. Happy master makes a happy charge, and a happy charge makes a happy master. The sparkling wave of bright, cheerful energy is in so many ways like a constantly surging flame; fireworks without the explosion. It dances for her, free of coercion, needing only the best part of life to sustain it.