“By now, all three Brannick women—all four, if you counted Mom—were staring at me. Man, what had that piney-tasting stuff been? The Brannick version of Red Bull?”

“Do you know anything about the Brannicks?""Irish girls, red hair," I replied, remembering a picture of them from Mrs. Casnoff's "People Who Want to Kill Us All" lecture at Hex Hall last year. I also remembered Mrs. Casnoff saying that if the Brannicks and The Eye ever teamed up, we were screwed.”

“Brannicks and magic and hell, oh my,” ~ Sophie”

“Pia counted through the burp. “… two ten thousand, three ten thousand, four – oop, you win.” She stared at the little faerie in awe. “Where did you put all that air?”

“I hate to say it, but all that stuff they try to tell you about women being empowered and how it's fine for a woman to ask a man out, well, it's crap.' I look down at my watch. 'Seven fifty-three p.m.' 'What does that mean?' 'Official time of death of feminism,' I reply, and mom laughs.”

“He smiled. "All that stuff can be learned," he said. "What you're doing now, that's instinct. And it counts for a lot.”