Pharis didn’t seem to think it was strange. In fact, he smiled. “You and I are both pangolins, as it turns out.”
“Pangolins? What’s that?”
“They’re these little hard-shelled animals with overlapping scales—they look a bit like tiny dragons. Their protective armor keeps them safe under attack, and they can roll themselves into balls to guard their vulnerable underbellies.”
Recognizing myself in that description, I had to laugh. “I do that.”
“So do I,” Pharis said. “I pretend nothing bothers me.”
“I noticed. You use humor as a shield.”
“And you use stubbornness,” he said. “And independence.”
I nodded, acknowledging the truth of it.
“Actually I think I use hard work more often.” This was the first time I’d even realized it.
“Of course some work is good and necessary,” I said, “but I have to admit, I overdo it. I keep going far beyond the point of exhaustion. I just find it hard to stop, you know?”
Pharis nodded, and I continued, “It got to the point I didn’t feel comfortable with rest. I’ve gotten more sleep on the road with you than I ever did at home because under these circumstances, I’ve been forced to rest.”
“I would like to see you have an easier life, little Wyn,” he said. “You deserve it.”
I stared into the fire, blushing again though I wasn’t sure why. Then I looked over at him.
“You deserve a good life, too. You’re a good person, just like Stellon said.”
Pharis snorted then began coughing, apparently having inhaled a sip of tea.
“You are,” I insisted. “You’ve said before that you’re a bad sort, but I just don’t see it.”
“Well I’ve certainly been living like a monk since leaving Seaspire.”
He sounded as if he was complaining. Then he added glibly, “Not a single skirt has been chased in weeks.”
“And I’m certain all those High Fae skirts are longing for your return,” I said, playing along.
Then I got serious again, remembering what Stellon had told me about his brother, that he considered himself deeply flawed.
“What happened to make you think of yourself in such a derisive way?” I asked.
Pharis rose from the stool, stepping away from the fireplace.
“That conversation,” he said, “calls for something a good bit stronger than tea. And it’s late. We should get some sleep.”
He strode to the second bedroom door but stopped in the doorway.
“There’s only one bed in there.”
“I know,” I said. “I’m planning to sleep out here by the fire.”
“You’re not going to sleep on the floor when there’s a perfectly good bed,” he argued, sounding perturbed. “You’ve been sleeping on the ground for weeks.”
“So have you. You should take the bed. I insist.”
Pharis looked back over his shoulder at me. “We could share it.”
When I raised my eyebrows, he put up both hands and said, “Not that way. I promise to stay on my half.”
