In my experience, boys are predictable. As soon as they think of something, they do it. Girls are smarter—they plan ahead. They think about not getting caught.

Chaos reigned, and the survivalists eagerly unwrapped the kidskin from their crossbows. Phase one of Opal's plan was complete.

A pity to survive night flights over St. Georges Channel only to crack my skull falling from a ladder.

Will you miss him Holly?” he asked suddenly. [...] “No,” she said. “I will not miss him.” But her eyes told the real story.

Now I can do the bolts," she slurred. "I've been trying to focus enough magic all week." The magic shifted and swirled, finally etching a picture in the air. It was a rough picture of Foaly, and he was laughing. I hate you, centaur!" screamed Opal, lunging toward, and then through, the insubstantial image. Her eyes rolled back into her head, and then she collapsed, snoring, on the floor. Artemis straightened his tie. Freud, he was certain, would have a field day with that.

It took teams of LEP warlocks to slow down time for a few hours; the magic required to open a door to the tunnel was stupendous. It would be easier to shoot down the moon. Opal tapped this into her notepad. Reminder. Shoot down the moon? Viable?

I can grow cameras!" she had shrieked at the Brill brothers during one briefing. "Who's to say that despicable centaur Foaly hasn't succeded in splicing surveillance equiptment to plants? So get rid of all the flowers. Rocks, too. I don't trust them. Sullen little blebers.