“I’ve tried,” Strange admits, and this is something he hasn’t told very many people; his whole thing in this universe is casual flippant competency, and so it rankles to know that he still has limits, even here. “I haven’t been able to pierce the illusion, if it is an illusion. Which is a wound to my professional pride, let me tell you. There’s very few things I dislike more than doubting my own mind and my own senses.”

(He remembers the smell of apple blossoms, the crunch of grass underfoot, the wind in the trees, before Wanda’s illusion melted away.)

They’ve reached a landing, passing old portraits and paintings. And he looks over at the other man. “Did you have any suggestions?”