"Real art, the on-canvas kind." The witch considered, frowned, and corrected herself; "Mostly. Every so often we had something mixed-media, but all of it was stuff you could fit into a frame."

Any additional elaboration---on her history, on art, or on the practical invoking of plausible magic---was lost at 'not a newt,' which derailed Sam's train of thought as effectively as torn tracks. The corner of her mouth tilting towards a smile, she spent several seconds just looking at Hiro before turning her eyes to the floor, to the ceiling, and only eventually back to the boy.

"Not a newt." The straight face she'd approximated fell away the instant her admission was out, and the 'why' was two words: "Not yet."