After a while his grandfather pursed his lips, and examined the patch of earth he was tending. River didn’t know what he was doing: planting flowers or digging up weeds—River had spent his life in flats. Flowers arrived in colourful wrapping, or sprouted in parks. If he could magic himself back to one of those flats now he’d do so, but magic was unavailable.
— Slow Horses (Mick Herron), Loc. 1525-27