Nightingale waves away the werelight, looking quietly delighted. "Of course," he says. "Since this is such a small and simple spell, the vestigium you feel will simply be my magical signature, or signare. It has often been likened to clockwork."

Holding out his hand once more, he again makes a fist. "Try to feel beyond that signare to the moment of the spell taking form. Lux." The orb forms once more, spinning lazily above his palm.

Going deeper, Nightingale's power is evident as a jumble of sensations - the smell of grass, the rub of wet wool, sweet high-pitched song, all overlaid with that continuous tick-tick-tick - but perhaps beyond that, the shape of the spell becomes more clear, like a sudden beam of sunlight through cloud or the pop of a stuck jar lid coming loose.