"Tony." To cut through the meandering noise of him, call him back to task. There's no punchline to deliver. No tell to find. Stephen's expression is deadly serious, and if he's going to get him through this he can't leave him to stumble about in the safety net of paper thin jokes and bad comparisons.

Words aren't working. He replaces them with images: a bath full of jet black water, a winged nightmare poised on a Moot Hall rafter. A hand covered in a sheen of pitch, Niez mark visible on the back as it turns.

When the cursemark share is over, Stephen's still there. Watchful. Steady. Sorry, too.

"It's real."