This is not the starlit, close-packed conifer forest that Isabella expected. This is the sunlit shore of a woodland lake, with not a pine tree in sight. She did not bring a parasol. The sunlight washes over her, dapples her skin. In the half-second before it swallows her up, she thinks: At least I'll get to die prettily.
Isabella fails to spontaneously combust.
... Alright then.