“Give what a go?” Lambert snaps at Strange, looking up from the letter he’s been skimming with a frown. “You’re the magician, not me, remember?”

The theory that is occurring to Strange is slowly occurring to Lambert as well, but unlike the magician, he’s far more reluctant to accept it, instinctively pushing the knowledge away. He doesn’t want to be drawn into this story — but the longer he delays, the deeper the darkness grows, the more the birds seem to encroach. Stiff-legged, he makes his way to Strange and the birdbath, scowling all the while.

“This is stupid. Show me Drawlight,” he mutters sullenly, waving a hand over the water. For all his protestations, he did notice what Strange was trying to do.