The sugar lump passed under his chair on matchstick rollers, the squeaking of the slavedriver ants just at the edge of hearing.
“This building is frightened of thunderstorms,” said Granny. “It could do with comforting.”
Very carefully, without knowing exactly why, he reached out and gave the wall a friendly pat.
“There, there,” he said.
Strangely enough, he felt a lot better.
…Not that he could be certain of the fine figure, of course, what with the rain and the wind and Granny’s habit of wearing her entire wardrobe in one go.
It was the kind of storm that suggests that the whole sky has swallowed a diuretic.
He had a nasty feeling that Granny would have won eventually. Fighting her was like swatting a fly on your own nose.
The lodgings were on the top floor next to the well-guarded premises of a respectable dealer in stolen property because, as Granny had heard, good fences make good neighbors.
For the first time in her life Granny wondered whether there might be something important in all these books people were setting such store by these days, although she was opposed to books on strict moral grounds, since she had heard that many of them were written by dead people and therefore it stood to reason reading them would be as bad as necromancy.
“The broomstick’s going to crash! Can’t we do anything?”
“Well, I suppose we could get off.”
… “I don’t think you quite understand. I don’t want to hit the ground. It’s never done anything to me.”
…he had all the tact of an avalanche and was as self-centered as a tornado…
He tried hinting that she should obey the unwritten rules of Zoon life and stay afloat, but a hint was to Esk what a mosquito bite was to the average rhino because she was already learning that if you ignore the rules people will, half the time, quietly rewrite them so that they don’t apply to you.