Camille Pissarro Boulevard Montmarte

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imps? Any good with your hands at all?’
‘No,’ Victor admitted.
‘Can you sing?’
‘A bit. . ‘Can’t sing. Can’t dance. Can handle a sword a little.’
‘But I have saved your life twice,’ said Victor.
‘Twice?’ snapped Silverfish.
‘Yes,’ said Victor. He took a deep breath. This was going to be risky. ‘Then,’ he said, ‘and now.’
There was a long pause. In the bath. But not very well,’ Victor conceded. ‘Can you dance?’ ‘No.’ ‘Swords? Do you know how to handle a sword?’ ‘A little,’ said Victor. He’d used one sometimes in the gym. He’d never in fact fought an opponent, since wizards generally abhor exercise and the only other University resident who ever entered the place was the Librarian, and then only to use the ropes and rings. But Victor had practised an energetic and idiosyncratic technique in front of the mirror, and the mirror had never beaten him yet. ‘I see,’ said Silverfish gloomily