I couldn’t get over his voice. All the inflections were eastern European, but the tone was flat-out southern Ontario. It was disorienting, but Chelsea forged ahead with the bluntness of youth.
“What’s it worth?”
Ollivander’s irritation didn’t surprise me. A man doesn’t speak of the spirit and then happily plunge straight into the material. Well, perhaps a televangelist does, but not many others.
“Young lady,” he said, but looked at me, “patience is required in such delicate matters.”
Ollivander didn’t let the silence linger, despite his comment. He turned his pewter lenses to Chelsea.
“You see here? What he is wearing? I’ll bet you don’t know what kind of shirt this is.”
Chelsea shrugged. “White.”
“Yes, white. And the paint is original and still so fresh after over a hundred years.
