All very impressive, she's quite sure, except that as usual, his sense of drama is completely impractical. "Bartimaeus," she huffs in frustration, "I paid a deposit, and now - ugh - " A chunk of plaster drops from the ceiling. "And my landlady was very sweet, you know. We are not destroying her wall on the way out."

She does, obligingly, climb onto the back of the sphinx. Which is actually quite comfortable, when you get down to it. The last time she and Bartimaeus had traveled together, he'd been dangling her over the London rooftops, and she'd been furiously stabbing at his scaly feet in an attempt to cause any sort of damage. In contrast, now, her perch is quite nice: the spinx's back is narrow enough that it doesn't strain her thighs, and its fur is thick and luxurious enough that she can dig her hands in and enjoy the plushness. Really quite lovely.

"You," she dictates, "are going to lower your head and take the stairs and then use the front door like a rational perso- spirit. Understood?"