She was going to have them herself. She thought of Tara and remembered Jonas Wilkerson, venomous as a rattler, at the foot of the front steps, and she grasped at the last straw floating above the shipwreck of her life.
The room beyond was dimly lit, but he could see Nagini, swirlign and coiling like a serpent underwater, safe in her enchanted, starry sphere, which floated unsupported in midair.
Of course, it has its imperfections, all that flailing flurry of action in the foreground, the mysteriously floating iron fetters, the flung limb that may or may not be detached from its torso.