He tilts his head to the side as if I’ve said the most fascinating thing on Earth. “An artist. Claro que si.”
“What does that mean?”
He smiles, shifting his attention to my other wrist. “Yes, of course. I should have known a wolf as beautiful as you would only put more beauty into the world.”
I roll my eyes.
“What kind of art do you produce?”
I nibble my lip. “Right now I’m really into watercolors with black ink outlines.”
“Like landscapes?”
I don’t know why it embarrasses me to say what I’ve been drawing. I say it, anyway. “Fairies.”
He c***s his head, studying me. I wait for him to scoff, but instead he asks, “Why fairies?”
“Um.” I flush. No one’s ever asked me this much about my art before. Not even my folks. “When I was little, I had a nanny. Well, an older wolf who watched me
