Kevin Malcolm Wettsworth is a small, thin man who moves with a nervous, quick-bounced gait, like a moth startled into motion. His long, black hair and beard are deliberately unbrushed and fall in tangled ropes, each strand clinging with a faint dusting of ashlike particles. His skin is unnaturally pale, almost porcelain, but his hands are an alarming deep, matte black as if stained by ink or dried blood. He wears a baby blue long coat and a matching wizard's hat, both slightly faded and smelling faintly of old books and iron. On his feet are pink, fluffy house shoes that squeak softly against flagstones. The left lens of his spectacles is gone; a jagged shard of glass remains in the right frame and catches light in wicked, uneven flashes. When he speaks his fingers flutter in small, precise patterns as if tracing invisible letters. The overall effect is both comic and uncanny, like a scholarly jester who never grew out of a terrible prank.