“The sticky heaps of jellied marshmallows and tinted fruit that appear on too many tables should be shudderingly avoided along with their sickeningly sweet mayonnaise but my POTATO SALAD is something quite different.”

“What would angel lips taste like? Sunshine? Marshmallows? Or something altogether different? Maybe buttered-popcorn jelly beans.”

“I mostly eat peanut butter sandwiches. Peanut butter and banana, peanut butter and jelly, peanut butter and potato chips, peanut butter and olives, and peanut butter and marshmallow goo. So sue me, I like peanut butter.”

“Even with all the mayonnaise in the world, you can't make chicken salad out of chicken shit.”

“I lifted my wand, hoping she would see this as a dramatic move, not a threat. “Why once, in my bunker at Charing Cross Station, I stalked thedeadly prey known as Jelly Babies.”Neith’s eyes widened. “They are dangerous?”“Horrible,” I agreed. “Oh, they seem small alone, but they always appear in great numbers. Sticky, fattening—quite deadly. There I was, alonewith only two quid and a Tube pass, beset by Jelly Babies, when…Ah, but never mind. When the Jelly Babies come for you…you will find out onyour own.”She lowered her bow. “Tell me. I must know how to hunt Jelly Babies.”I looked at Walt gravely. “How many months have I trained you, Walt?”“Seven,” he said. “Almost eight.”“And have I ever deemed you worthy of hunting Jelly Babies with me?”“Uh…no.”

“Behind their eyes the hope was sickening and in many, dead. They lived from event to event with a subtle terror of the gap between, filling up their lives with distractions to avoid the emptiness where curiosity should have been.”