[It's less the coat of itself and more the everything. Coat, scarf, other weird decorations, ridiculous hat. Crowe shakes her head and brushes hair from her face.]

It's part of the job. If you're not gonna help do it, stay out of the way.

[And she puts her torch to another patch of flowers. He's making light around him and it's still weird even though she has no magic of her own and has had some up front lessons in those, from other worlds, who do. It's better to look away. The fire blazes higher than an ordinary spread, to the background pulse of Crowe's low laughter. It does not sound mirthful.

Scorches and cracks in the quickly drying ground spread steadily beneath her feet.]

Maybe they kill you. It'd be worth burning them all then.