Something tapped him. Solomon went very still and turned his head. It hadn't been a sharp thing. In fact, it had been rather ... furry. A furry thing? And Ravel's soul was just there, over the table, in fact, but strangely warped--like he'd been funneled through a tub and only part of it was left sticking out.

"Ravel?" he asked again, his head tilted, and put his hand out a little further along the table, until he felt something warm and fluffy under his fingers. His frown deepened. "Are you an animal?"

Good grief; what would the Dead Men think of next?