Benedict liked New York well enough that his subconscious moulds itself after its conveniences, and so it stands to reason that Stephen is similarly drawn in. This dream catches him like a particularly honeyed trap, tantalising, precisely the sort of thing he might like, too: all of the magic, none of the guilt.

Doctor Stephen Strange has attained a professorship at the Orlesian university, the first rifter allowed to do so, and teaches magic at one of the Circles which feels so much like an academy. He is anchored in this reality, with no risk of unexpectedly vanishing someday (and how does he know? don’t ask, it just is). His usual sass about Medieval Times is— gone, actually, because of all the gleaming magical conveniences and Tevene delights that he admires so much, stripped of any reason to feel bad about what went into making them.

So he’s at one of the House Artemaeus salons, breezing through crowds of the magical aristocracy, meandering through the gallery and taking in the sights. He’s comfortable and very much in his element, sipping a cocktail, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with the host in question as he takes in one of the art pieces, glittering with illuminated arcane glyphs.

“I like it. I have this set of seven rainbow lamps at home, they’re like enchanted multi-coloured lights, I imagine the principle must be the same,” Stephen says to his friend.

(and for a moment the details are hazy, because he remembers those lamps illuminating something else — the floorboards tilting slightly underfoot, a houseboat, winding stairs, a view of the bay through the windows — and that’s not the Hightown house he lives in now, is it?

— in this dream, that manse looks very much like the Sanctum Sanctorum. This is on purpose.)