That's the thing about magic; you've got to know it's still here, all around us, or it just stays invisible for you.
Gina always believed there was magic in the world. "But it doesn't work in the way it does in fairy tales," she told me. "It doesn't save us. We have to save ourselves.
A name can't begin to encompass the sum of all her parts. But that's the magic of names, isn't it? That the complex, contradictory individuals we are can be called up complete and whole in another mind through the simple sorcery of a name.
I believe in a different kind of magic. The kind we make between each other.
Like legend and myth, magic fades when it is unused.
Magic's never what you expect it to be, but it's often what you need.
The magic in this world seems to work in whispers and small kindnesses.
It is so easy for your people to forget that everything has a spirit, that all are equal. That magic and mystery are a part of your lives, not something to store away in a child's bedroom, or to use as an escape from your lives.
It's easy to believe in magic when you're young. Anything you couldn't explain was magic then. It didn't matter if it was science or a fairy tale. Electricity and elves were both infinitely mysterious and equally possible - elves probably more so.