It's been a while since they last worked this. Isaac had been busy, then gone; and the Infirmary's demanded most of his return. Fix this, mend that, and there's an odd satisfaction to it now: Pulling the string from the other end.

"Good," He scoops up the teapot from the wall she's wobbled into. Smythe isn't the most dangerous target on which to practice misdirection, but those eight legs can scuttle at speed. "When you're confident you've got control, bars are a good place to practice; crowds. See if you can make it through the market without anyone bumping into you."

That isn't really what he intends to speak of. The little phial of blood lingers in his breastpocket, gleam hidden against his heart.