The brass and red is an unintended echo; Stephen’s new hands are the same gleaming gold of his sling ring, the Staff of the Living Tribunal, the Eye of Agamotto, all cast in geometric angular shapes.

“Viktor,” Stephen says in welcome. He doesn’t need the bright beaming smiles; the friendly collegial warmth between the two men has always been subtle enough, painted mostly in the way they would perk up in conversation, heads bent over an intriguing problem, voices animated in intellectual patter, hands gesturing.

Today, the sorcerer cocks his head and surveys the greenhouse around them. Remembering twining vines, florid greenery. Another life.

“Or is there something else I should be calling you? The man at the door knew who I was referring to, but he simply said an audience.”