Eventually, the shop proprietor comes over, expression tight under her cascade of pearly curls. She's short –- the top of her head doesn't even clear Will's chest –- and she looks even smaller next to Wolfgang, but she might as well be towering, from the force of presence she's projecting.

“Excuse me,” she says. “You're going to have to leave. We don't serve criminals here.”

“What,” Will says.