Jonathan Stroud
Author of fantasy books, mainly for children and young adults.
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†.
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.
"Woken up, have you?" the woman said. Her voice was like broken glass in an ice bucket.†
[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.
When I landed on the top of a lamppost in the London dusk it was peeing with rain.
"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?"
"I'm Martha. And you are...?"
A small snuffle, a smaller voice. "Nathaniel."
In the middle of the lawn was a lake adorned with an ornamental fountain, depicting an amorous Greek god trying to kiss a dolphin.†
"Too much hate is bad for you," I ventured.
"Why?"
"Um..."