"Out of all of them, you are the one I would least wish to see dead," Childermass says truthfully enough, though he still doesn't sound all too pleased. In the end, Strange can be dealt with. He's mortal. The Count and the Queen, however, are far worse, far, far worse.

But his wrongful assumptions about the true fae rub him such a wrong way, then he'll continue to insist, "And that's the thing about them. They won't lie to you. They don't need to. They'll tell you whatever you want to know, but then ask for something in return."

He steps forward again, one step, two, three, closing the distance between himself and the mage again. This time, it's to jab a finger into the ill man's chest, viciously.

"Keep this up and you won't be able to talk shit about changelings much longer. You'll be one."