Hands. Watch the hands — shaky meat, steady metal; gleaming under glass that must've cost months of shaft-rat wage. Lyrium buys fine things: Gears so small you gotta work them with picks, fabric woven from the cocoons of a thousand pale worms. Magic. The space where it ends.

He holds. He waits. It stops, or it doesn't.

"Think all our doctors been murderers," He tells Strange. "But mostly, they keep it outside."