Dill returned to the camera. His head looked no different despite several pounds of dough on the table. He tried digging the fish slice vertically into his skull and peeling it away in one large chunk. There was still no sign of the sigils, though he was impressed at the work Harold and the imps had put into constructing a facsimile of the skull and brain. He felt a slight twinge as he peeled away the lump and just for a moment was unsure if he'd haced away his consciousness. It was only for a second. By the time the lump of dough joined the others on the desk he was himself again.
Perhaps the sigils are somewhere else. Where the heart is, maybe?
“Maybe.” Dill looked at the pile of dough he'd removed. How much would he have to remove before his consciousness went out with the discarded material? Did it stay with the larger part? What happened when he reached the point where the off-cuts exceeded the remains? Would he become the lump? What if he accidentally scooped out the sigils? Would he be in that piece? What about Sam? Where was he located? “I don't think we're going to find them.”
Why not? They must be written somewhere inside you. I can see the memory of them in your mind.
“But I think you have to say something to make them appear. An incantation or a magic spell, something like that.”
There was none of that at Magelight.
“No, but they were designed to be discrete units, movable soul cages.” Dill wished his mouth watered so he could swallow. “I think we're stuck in here.”