Firefly Glen but when i go to sleep at night, don't you call my name

pretty.

he said strangely, voice silhouetting something she regarded with a measure of incredulity.

the compliment went through her brain like a sieve. so thoroughly persuaded she'd been, once; how the man loved to descant upon her bodily description. she was only just a child, then.

she pressed in closer when he withdrew in alarm, eyes squinched to glean a nearer assessment of his condition. esmé smoothed the lines of appalment from her face and cleared her throat politely. "forgive me—" she whispered with discretion, "i was deeply concerned you might have inherited freckles. i was mistaken." 

esmé leveled her gaze to his own and murmured with a sigh. "fortunately, it's just ticks." the woman peered at the quaint nymphs holding congress on his muzzle, intrigued. "can you not feel them, truly? the crawling?" bemusement welled into her voice.