THE VIRUS OF BEAUTY
“Ermentrude Wakefield is the name.” She glanced around the small store. “You may call me Witch Wakefield.”
Wilf stepped back, braced against the wall, and shoved his ringed hand into his pocket. His heart raced. The Wizard Council had dispatched this witch to collect him. Well, it didn’t make any difference who they sent. He wasn’t leaving Hong Kong.
“Now, I don’t usually deal with wizards” — her face wrinkled the way Myra’s did when she took his soccer kit out of its bag for washing — “but this time I have to. So, show me the rest of the place. We’ll need your father’s journal and then we’ll be on our way. There’s sure to be a portal nearby we can use. I can’t abide taking passengers on my broom. Although I’d rather not have to use the warehouse portals up in Sha Tin, but if needs must…”
“There’s been some mistake.” Wilf could hear the panic in his voice. “I’m not a wizard. That was my father. He died — I mean, evaporated — a few weeks ago.”