Picking disconsolately at his dinner, Strange has folded his left hand beneath his other forearm, hiding that glimmer of green from view. It was too little and too late, but these experiences outside the Gallows are reinforcing how skittish people could be about it. He’d finally stopped being self-conscious about his hands and now here’s the goddamn anchor shard, teaching him to be wary all over again.

“Unpleasantly sympathetic about your company; what, like you’re our nanny? My condolences.”

It’s an unhelpful, sarcastic addition. The townspeople are on edge, he’s on edge, and the locals won’t even let the healer and the doctor examine Merran, and he hates it. He takes a morose bite of some bread.

“Perhaps Derrica and I can be leashed up like a gaggle of children on a tether, and they’ll be more at ease. Have Gela be the friendly face.”