"A demon?"
The old man blinked, his weathered brows knitting together in genuine confusion.
Lysander shifted where he sat at the question, his gaze darting briefly to the side as if he too just grasped how absurd his words must have sounded.
"She drew this painting of me," he continued, recollecting the details. "She drew horns… and sharp teeth."
The old man regarded him more closely now, studying the peculiar way Lysander spoke of it. There was no anger in his tone, no true outrage, only a strange, subdued curiosity. One brow slowly arched.
"And how did you come upon this… sketch?" he asked.
"I caught her," Lysander answered at once,then frowned, as though annoyed at himself for dwelling on the memory. He shook his head, the dark strands of his hair brushing his cheeks. "But why do you ask? That has nothing to do with why I came here to see you, Uncle."
