Already, the memory of the sprite's face is slipping from Lambert's mind, and between one breath and the next the acrid scent of bile seems to disappear from the air as the magic scrubs away all traces of it. The heady perfume she'd been wearing, though, opium and lavender thick enough to make Lambert's nose itch, still coils lazily in the air. It's hard to think clearly, but he'll latch on to it, stepping around the table to general protest and grabbing Childermass by the upper arm.

"Actually..." He trails off, unable to come up with a good, compelling excuse on short notice. "I'm afraid need to steal Mr. Childermass for a moment," is the best he can come up with, trying to tug Childermass to his feet, unsteady himself. The scent trail is already weakening, mixed with the overpowering aroma of everything else here, but he'll struggle to follow it nevertheless.