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266 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 2016

"But first, I need to finish my exam." She lifted his right hand in her own, and Stephen had to exhale to keep himself from pulling it back. "How are your hands feeling?" she asked.
Stephen forced himself to look at them. They were covered in surgical scars and felt alien to him, like relics from someone else's life. And they hurt — always. In addition to the constant dull aching and occasional flare-ups of burning nerve pain, thinking about his hands always seemed to bring up some deeply buried biological memory of having been under surgical anesthesia — the nausea and bitter aftertaste — as well as a stab of shame concerning the man he used to be.
"They're fine," he said, more brusquely than he meant to. "Or rather, they're unchanged, but I'm fine." He paused, realizing he didn't definitively know whether that was true.
He reached out suddenly and touched the exact center of her forehead with one finger, drawing what felt like an oval before pressing the heel of his palm against it. It was the first time she'd really looked at his hands. They were horrifically damaged — stiff and scarred. And as he touched her, sending a small jolt of energy through her flesh like a pinpoint of electrical current, they began tremoring.
"Wong says you were a brain surgeon once," she blurted suddenly, feeling like she ought to know more about the man in whose attic she was about to sleep. "Is that true?"
"That was another lifetime ago." He was about to get up, but seemed to think better of it, steepling his hands as he explained. "I should probably clarify — I don't mean that literally. It was a long time ago, and I was a different man then." Sharanya watched him intently, trying to ignore the feeling of Nightmare's eyes on her back. "I can see that you're struggling with all of this," Strange acknowledged. "Think of magic as an extension of science; go beneath the molecules and the atoms, and there it is, holding everything together. It's the why, the triumph of collective interdependencies over classifying dissimilarities. It's life wanting to exist, and finding a way to thrive, in an indifferent universe."
He took her hand, calmly balling it into a fist as he covered it with one of his own. It seemed to Sharanya that the scars were from operations — maybe dozens of them.
"Reality," he said, with his hand covering the whole of her fist. Next, he lightly tapped her thumb. "Science." And then he tapped her pinky. "Magic. All the same components — we're just untangling the problem from the opposite end."
His confidence seemed absolute, and when he rose again she could think of no objections worth uttering, as crazy as the whole plan still seemed to her.