Jackson's eyebrows peak up, and to the young girl, it may seem strange how he's looking over her, while she's addressing him. That's what happens when one doesn't realize they're being haunted, or in this case, being silently nurtured by an oddly mothering ghost. It's like the phrase, "Angels are watching over you," except with more ectoplasm.

"Ghost. It's... yankee witch slang. For when you've wounded yourself with magic."

Well, that was a lie so awkwardly put together it'd make Jackson cringe. He's usually the guy with the well-polished silver tongue.

"Tell me how this came about, darlin," he asks, gently lifting up her arm, as he delicately peels back the bandages. "Don't smell like a wound ought to smell, does it?"

He shoots a look to Clara as he asks the question.