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intuitive.
    â€œA bit of both, like me,” he says. “But more intuitive, I think.”
    Her brow wrinkles, and although she doesn’t look away from the exercise in her palm, it’s clear she wants more explanation.
    â€œAn intuitive just
does
it, doesn’t need as many implements, can do small things almost immediately. Like what you’re doing. An intuitive is more luminous, must in fact be luminous from the start.”
    â€œAnd a planner?”
    â€œPlodder.”
    â€œPlodder.”
    â€œThey hate that word. And some of them are a bit contemptful and jealous toward intuitives.”
    â€œSounds like you’re a bit contemptful of them.
Plodder
is an ugly word. What do they call themselves?”
    â€œ
Disciples
is the preferred term when they differentiate, but they don’t differentiate the same way. They see themselves as disciplined and those who don’t spend their lives bent over books as lazy. Thing is, they’re all geniuses. The plodders. To come at magic without luminosity, you have to be smart enough to work for Apple or IBM or crack codes for the CIA, and a few of them do. Their books are much more complex, more like rocket science; more glyphs and formulas, though one of them would say
formulae
. They
think
their way into belief, crack the code of magic and understanding with brainpower. They aren’t all luminous at the start, but they get there; they make a fire with sticks where naturals already have a fire. But the payoff is that they can do really big, astounding things. Think of it as learning a language with books and tapes versus being born in that country. Nonluminous plodders are like non-native speakers. But English was Nabokov’s second language, and he wrote
Lolita
. Or was it his third language? He spoke French, too.”
    â€œNabokov, huh? Was that a jab?”
    â€œAt who?”
    She raises an eyebrow, keeps moving the shard.
    â€œOh, right.”
    I forgot you’re a sex offender.
    â€œNot consciously.”
    Anneke is officially a witch, albeit a novice. The first time she jiggled that penny, Andrew felt the small tingle of magic waking up. She collapsed and sobbed afterward, but that was not unusual. He had a similarly emotive reaction the first time he spun a pop top. The first spell is usually some light levitation. Small magic, admittedly, a mustard seed from which some build mountains.
    He leans forward just a little so the black iron conical stove behind her appears to top her head like a witch’s hat. Sandalwood incense leaks smoke behind her. He leans the other way so it appears to come from her nose.
    â€œWhat are you doing?” she says, her concentration split, Abraham Lincoln dead again on dull copper in her hand.
    â€œSorry. Nothing.”
    She tosses the penny into a broken mug full of coins, lights a cigarette, gives him one. He totters the lighter out of her hand, levitates it into his.
    â€œShow-off. Can you light it?”
    â€œIt’s a more precise motion, takes more strength.”
    â€œYes, but can you?”
    â€œBurns more gas.”
    She squints her eyes at him.
    â€œMagic burns fuel. Continuous spells burn fuel continuously. Spikes in magic use can disrupt those spells. Think of an outlet, energy surges.”
    â€œContinuous spells? Like what?”
    â€œHealth. Youth. Luck. One well-cast luck spell in Vegas and a user can clean up. Only not in the MGM Mirage casinos—Mandalay Bay, Bellaggio, I forget the rest but I have a list—they have users working for them, kicking others out. Or worse.”
    â€œYouth, huh? You running one of those right now, Mr. Looks Thirty-Five?”
    â€œYou should know. Try to detect it.”
    She closes her eyes.
    â€œOpen them and think about what you want to know.”
    Now she looks at him, really looks at him. Then she feels it, subtle as cat’s breath. The hairs on her forearms stand up just a little.
    â€œYou vain