Goodsir absorbs this information in silence. From a certain point of view—namely, that it is impossible to the point of absurdity that he should be here, living and breathing, after what he did in Hickey's camp—the notion that in this place, Victor Frankenstein is a living man is not really all that outlandish. Not that it’s easy to accept, even considered thus, but it does at least get him past the reflexive cry of that's impossible.

"I...see," he says slowly. "I cannot pretend that it is anything but strange to me—but there is much I have had to accept as real in the last several days, and so what is one more strange thing?"

He smiles; it’s not, perhaps, the most convincing smile. But he’s trying.