“You had mentioned. I believe the exact term was ‘a lot of knives’,” Strange says, and there’s a touch of amusement in his voice, and acceptance. He’s aware how this might have looked. This is a stranger, a newly-arrived stranger, and he is now in her home. The mention of the knives feels like the gentle flexing of a cat’s claws: not an overt threat, but a quiet reminder.

He cranes his head and watches Guilfoyle go, silently wondering what his deal is. Manservant? Butler? General attendant like Wong had once been, but more intimidating? But as the man vanishes, then Strange’s attention finally drifts to the hostess and the rest of the room. And he is, inevitably, impressed. There’s undisputed good taste at play, with high-quality renovation and stylish but not garish additions. Unexpectedly, the sleek hardwood and draperies suddenly remind him of the Sanctum Sanctorum and not for the last time, he finds himself sharply homesick.

The woman herself, too, is striking even before the scars and the glass eye, the way she brandishes her history in plain view. For a while, he’d worn gloves around the Sanctum to hide the scars on his hands, self-conscious; it had taken time to stop giving a damn.

“It didn’t look like much from the outside,” he says, frank and perhaps a little rude before he continues to the actual compliment, “but this is a hell of a boat. Is it still able to move, or is it permanently moored here?”