He didn’t have long to wait. Scarcely five minutes had elapsed before there came another knock on the door. “It is us,” Mia called through the wood. “Are you red’thy?”
“Yes,” he replied. “Come in, the door’s unlocked.”
They came in, Mialina first, then Alasdair, then Henry, each catching sight of him individually and each of their pairs of mismatched eyes widening comically.
“Impressive,” Alasdair commented.
“Thank you,” Seymour replied. “Just a few things before I go: Henry, I forgot to ask you about Simon. Any problems I might encounter?”
Henry frowned. “Well, he hears voices and has delusions. Also, he doesn’t really like to do as he’s told. But he isn’t allergic to anything.”
“No epilepsy, right?” Seymour inquired, unable to help himself.
“No epilepsy,” Henry confirmed, grinning.
Alasdair smiled sheepishly. “You’re never going to let me forget that, are you?”
“Nope,” Seymour answered. “Another question: would you three be so kind as to take my luggage to Carviliet for me? I would carry it myself, but it might arouse suspicion down in the penitentiary.”
“Certainly,” Alasdair replied, picking up Seymour’s bag and swinging it over his back.
“Thank you. Lastly…in case he asks me, what became of the boy Seoc was caught with?”
Seymour nodded. “I suspected as much.”
“Is that all?”
“Yes. I’m ready.”
The Alt-Mage nodded at his wife. “Mia, will you do the honors?”
Mialina produced a small, purple velvet pouch, undid the drawstrings, and poured its contents—a fine, silvery powder—into her palm. Then, holding it up, she blew the dust gently towards Seymour. It surrounded the Aechyed in a thin, uniform layer, adopting his form momentarily before sinking into him with a tingling sensation.
He looked down at himself and saw only the floor where his feet should have been. He was invisible.