And while in her teenage angst of confusion and hormones, Oliver Harbinger’s dark green eyes were on the house he’d been summoned to.
In the back alley of a Paris home, he’d cut through a park and been stopped by two little girls no older than fourteen asking if he wanted to play. Blushing he’d said he was meeting his mom and couldn’t but later. Not getting his phone or “Snapchat” whatever the hell that was because he didn’t have one. Oliver had rushed away awkwardly when he got weird looks.
Not only did he have the face of a thirteen-year-old, but he had the mind of a ninety-year-old. Something he was, even if he didn’t look.
Hoping one of those things could be corrected with this witch’s help. Oliver didn’t want to have resort to other extreme measures, like a deceiving genie or a
