I ducked. I can respect a formidable magical talent when I meet it, and Old Madam Dorie, the grey bag lady who smelt of curry powder and car fumes, had it in spades. She exuded skilful manipulation of primal force just like her bags gave off the smell of mould, and if she'd said hop, I would have hopped. She, like my gran, had the look of a woman who talked to the pigeons, and in the city no one sees more than the pigeons.
I ducked, which is why the bullet from the sniper's rifle shattered the skull of the horse-faced man, who'd just been standing, rather than mine.