Deep breaths. Don’t just fight Barrow’s chaperone. He’s got so many inches on you, and breadth and muscle mass besides— Don’t just cast a fucking spell on him, much as you might like to—

Strange’s expression is frigid, his voice even colder and flintier than usual. “Is that,” he says, “your professional medical opinion?”

He’s bristling, but in the back of his mind, regrettably, he already knows. He knows. The seizure was more than a bad sign. The arrangement, this whole time, was that he'd start to reconsider the plan if Barrow’s health was at genuine risk.

Well, now it is.