"Some of us don't have feet that turn to smoke," Lambert retorts, but as bidden, he goes ahead and sticks his feet in. It's a weird sensation, but not unpleasant, though it's fairly unclear to him how this is supposed to help his feet get any softer.

At any rate, while they leave their feet to soak, the fae claps her hands. Instantly, a pair of other winged fae -- about the size of a cat -- come out carrying baskets almost as big as they are, which they set down on the tables next to the chair's armrests. Lambert sniffs the air curiously, brow furrowing. Something smells ... sweet?

Before he gets a chance to ask about it, they're both being prodded into putting their hands into bowls filled with warm water, the fae tutting over the state of their respective hands. Lambert's, in particular, merits serious head-shaking, but Strange also gets some disapproving chatter, along with the promise that they'll 'take care of it for you, just wait and see.'

Lambert's not sure he likes the sound of that.