Jonathan Stroud
Author of fantasy books, mainly for children and young adults.
No magical alarm sounded, though I did hit my head five times on a pebble†.
"Too much hate is bad for you," I ventured.
"Why?"
"Um..."
In the middle of the lawn was a lake adorned with an ornamental fountain, depicting an amorous Greek god trying to kiss a dolphin.†
"I'm Martha. And you are...?"
A small snuffle, a smaller voice. "Nathaniel."
"I order you, Bartimaeus, to reveal whether you have diligently and wholly carried out your charge-"
"Of course I have - what do you think this is, costume jewelry?"
When I landed on the top of a lamppost in the London dusk it was peeing with rain.
[T]he magician emerges from bed and we recount our tale. Her response lacks gratitude: stammering furiously, she chides us for the damage to her lawns and flowerbed. The boy is smacked; I am Spasmed; we both spend the day with nail-clippers attending to the damage to the garden.
"Woken up, have you?" the woman said. Her voice was like broken glass in an ice bucket.†
Maybe I'd better call a halt to the journal for a bit. Until something crops up, that is, which it hopefully won't for a couple of decades. In the meantime: farewell, enjoy your futile lives, etc. This is Bartimaeus, care of The Other Place, signing off.
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†.
Monday
In Other Place. Did nothing.
Together, we must advance unafraid into the modern age!
"I know you," he said. "I know your scent. Long ago, yes, but I never forget. I know your name."
"A friend of a friend, perhaps?" I eyed his spear-tip nervously. Unlike Eagle-beak, he didn't wave it about at all.
"No... an enemy..."
"Terrible when you can't remember something that's right on the tip of your tongue," I observed. "Isn't it, though? And you try so hard to recall it, but often as not you can't because some fool's interrupting you, prattling away so you can't concentrate, and-"
Bull-head gave a bellow of rage. "Shut up! I almost had it then!"
The old pain had started up again, throbbing in my chest, stomach, bones. It wasn't healthy to be encased in a body for so long. How humans can stand it without going completely mad, I'll never know.†
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.
I'm only introducing it because of a small sub-clause in an Official Charge that escaped my notice a year or two back. Unfortunately the author didn't forget. Like elephants, authors are – nothing contractual escapes them.
"Remember this." he said in a soft voice. "Demons are very wicked. They will hurt you if they can. Do you understand this?"
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.
As part of my current charge I have been instructed to provide an occasional journal of my recent activities*.
"H-he is a messenger for you. H-h-he brings a message."
"You stagger me, Simpkin! A messenger with a message! Extraordinary."