I released the magic. A gold hieroglyph burned in front of me:

A wave of golden light ripples through the concourse. The troop of baboons hesitated. Babi stumbles on the Body Shop roof. Even Nekhebet squeaked and faltered on the ceiling girders.

All around the station, inanimate objects began to movie. Backpacks and briefcases suddenly learned to fly. Magazine racks, gum, sweets, and assorted cold drinks shot out of nowhere and slammed into Babi’s chest, knocking him backward through the roof of the Body Shop. A tornado of pink Financial Times newspapers swirled toward the ceiling. The engulfed Nekhebet, who stumbled blindly and fell shrieking from her perch ina flurry of pink and black.

“Go!” I told my friends. We ran for the exit, weaving around baboons who were much too busy to stop us. One was being pummeled by a half-dozen bottles of sparkling water. Another was fending off a briefcase and several kamikaze BlackBerrys.

Babi tried to rise, but a maelstrom of Body Shop products surged around him-lotions, loofa sponges, and shampoos all battering him, squirting in his eyes, and trying to give him a stern makeover.

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