Jo watches him, kneeling on the edge once he's in. A nervous energy creeping along her muscles upward as she watches the dark shape of him refract from looking solid, especially the further down he gets. A want to move. An absolution in the distaste in holding back, being still, waiting. Ready in case. A small bounce of ramping energy showing in her the press of her still soaked boots.

Counting. Counting. Watching him. Making sure that he's still moving. Gaze shifting across all the water every few seconds, too. In case, of new people. In case, of anything else that might come out of nowhere, not liking their choice of tactic. Back the dark shape of him, under the midday shadows of overgrown trees and the constant splashing from the water coming down from the fountain sprays.

That he breaks the surface swearing, even in a language she doesn't know, is answer enough. No door. No entrance. No exit.
Jo frowns, and the single word she says first is, "Magic." Caustic at the idea, and backing up for his getting out. "Joy."