What Abigail Did That Summer

You make a plan without intelligence—you might as well not have a plan at all.

“Are there aliens?” Simon asks Indigo.

“Not that I know of,” she says. “Unless you count cats.”

“Are you a practitioner?” I ask. “A wizard?”

“Sorceress, my dear,” she says. “Practitioner is how the gentlemen have styled themselves, as quacks now style themselves as physicians.”

If you run everywhere you miss stuff that you might have been better off noticing—just saying.

“Have fun,” she says and releases me. “Make trouble.”