Strange shakes his head, polite refusal; of his many vices, smoking was never one of them. But there’s a surprisingly companionable air to the exchange, the ghost of a smile on his face, and the way he seems to subtly brighten whenever the captain is mentioned. “I’ll be sure to make particular mention to her that you think so,” he says wryly,

but of course he’ll do nothing of the sort.

And eventually, it’s time: Isaac’s cigarette running low and ground out underfoot (best not start a fire in the Crossroads on these impossible trees fed by an impossible sun), and Stephen gathering up his belongings, his bags, that stupid jutting plague mask. And he sets off to head through the Orlesian eluvian, while Isaac skitters off wherever he’s skittering off to.