They aren't, Myr wants to retort perversely, but doesn't; it isn't true.

Exactly as the new voice says: They're as real as mages (and predate them besides). Myr twitches his head in that direction, the interruption more blessed distraction than unwelcome. Is that the sound of charcoal on paper?

"You're--drawing them?" That last word pitches up and Myr scrunches up against Benedict as a third spirit (a woman, superficially, shrouded and bent in all the wrong ways, fingers curled around the hilt of an impossible sword) appears nearly on top of them and reaches for his face. The first obscenity heaves itself onto the table--or has it been there all along?--and unfolds coyly, as if to afford the artist a better view.

Or perhaps it's trying to frighten him. Whatever.