A second later, a short, bearded man manifests before us, popping into sight, paper in hand.
“What are you calling me up here for?” the man asks. “You know I’ve got?—”
The old man stops, frowning at me.
“Ohhh. Why didn’t you tell me you brought someone with you?”
In my periphery, Elliot shakes his head, sighing, but my attention is fixed on Treehorn.
He appears to be a fae-born creature of some kind. I can see the faint fae-mark on his forehead, a little leaf-shaped birthmark, square in the center. Now Elliot’s directions make sense.
“Hello,” Mr. Treehorn says.
“Hi,” I answer, deciding it best to be brief.
Treehorn adjusts his glasses.
“What might you be?” he asks.
I ignore the odd turn of phrase and answer his question as I assume it was meant to be asked.
“I’m Elliot’s girlfriend,” I say, smiling as best I can.
But apparently it isn’t working, because Treehorn frowns, his face twisting in confusion.
“No, you’re not,” he says.
“Tree,” Elliot warns. “You’re staring.”
Treehorn jumps, seemingly startled by Elliot’s voice.
“Am I?”
His round face pinches as he continues to look at me, and I wonder what kind of creature he is.
There’s nothing telling just from looking at him. His height is more in line with the gnomes, but he has a dark complexion, speckled with moles and a few freckles, more common among the brownies. But whatever he is, he is old.
His not-so-subtle inspection and foggy eyes give him a rather sage appearance. One you can only acquire with age.
“Yes,” Elliot answers. “You are.”
Treehorn blinks but does not stop, not until Elliot steps in front of me.
“It’s rude,” he reminds the old shopkeep.
“Ah, quite right.” Treehorn nods. “My apologies, Elliot’s girlfriend.”
“Apology accepted.”
Treehorn smiles, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his blazer and glancing back and forth between Elliot and me.
“Well,” he declares after a few moments of silence. “I suppose I’ll take my leave. No sense in both of us wandering through the shelves at this hour.”
Elliot nods, chuckling beneath his breath as Treehorn winks at him.
“Sure, Tree. I’ll lock up.”
Mr. Treehorn reaches for the leather jacket on the coat rack by the door, and Elliot kindly helps him into it before handing him the tattered hat hanging from the top hook. Treehorn takes his time braving himself for the cool night air, but when he’s finished, he gestures for Elliot to stoop down and cups his mouth to his ear.
