“This might sound like absolute nonsense, like power of positive thinking visualising-your-way-out-of-depression bullshit, but I genuinely think this might help: if we get you practicing an instrument at the Sanctum, or painting. Get used to working with small, precise movements, like thin shards of ice, rather than levying all your magic at once. It’s like… a tap, open too far.”

He’s constantly fishing for metaphors to fit the training, to parse and make sense of her-their situation, but the more he ruminates on it, the more he likes the tap thing. Piper-and-Jordan as a pair of Chosen Ones had been a torrent, a flood. That magic was presumably still there, still trying to force its way through narrower pipes, but now with only one person to guide it.

There’s an ominous rumble, the clouds thickening further. As if to underscore Strange’s point, the drizzle roils and— the sky opens up completely, a torrential downpour as if the clouds have just unleashed buckets of water solely on Piper, drenching her to the bone. He makes a startled noise and then steps closer, further into her personal space than he’d ordinarily go, but enough for his runic umbrella to cover her as well.

A little too late, though.