Strange turns his head and takes a few steps aside, voice lowered to be audible on the crystal but not speaking quite so directly over the girl’s body. No need to openly discuss her within earshot and potentially cause alarm. He rattles off the details in business-like patter:

“Ennaris Tavane. Twenty-year-old female patient. Amputated forearm, now infected wound and fever. Her recovery was on pace, until she tore her stitches and took a turn for the worse. I’d hoped to handle this on my own, but now that you’re back—” A clipped beat in that neat and tidy recitation, a hesitation. “I’m afraid I’m at the limit of what I can accomplish without magic.”