"Spy three suspicious butterflies flitting over hedge. Check the planes. Yep, small foliots, arms flapping wildly. Wasp rises up behind them, shoots down out of sun, zaps them with Infernos, one, two, three. Burning butterflies crash-land in pond. Alert master to my triumph. She inspects charred fragments. Her scowl deepens; turns out they were her slaves, returning with valuable information."

“A better plan would be to head straight for Bart's Guide to London, since that's hugely entertaining and witty, i.e. written by me.”

“As part of my current charge I have been instructed to provide an occasional journal of my recent activities*.”

“Together, we must advance unafraid into the modern age!”

“The boy did the preliminaries, sealing the circles, erecting the bonds. Now we were all subject to the rules of the summoning. But then he stopped. He did not progress. The woman looked at him furiously. "I've forgotten it," he said.”

“Perhaps he'd want me to conjure up an illusion. That might be fun: there was bound to be a way of misinterpreting his request and upsetting him†.”

“Woken up, have you?" the woman said. Her voice was like broken glass in an ice bucket.†”