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It was not long before he was given attention, and in a perfectly empty mockery of deference, the boy bowed his head and averted his eyes. There was nothing abnormal about this masquerade that would have lead anyone to think anything differently; the chocolate-dipped boy was a monster in sheep's clothing. No, no he was not—the moment he let himself think that way, the facade began to crack and splinter, and he could not have this. He had abandoned his home and he needed a new one, and it had to be this one. Only this place possessed Larkspur within its borders.
“Hello, sir,” he said, as he had read other humans do when addressing others formally or those in authority. “My name is Harlowe D'Angelo. Perhaps you know my uncle, Larkspur? He lives here, and I have come today in hopes of joining him here,” the youth said eloquently. So long as he was not before a crowd, Harlowe now spoke wonderfully—of course there were still moments of choking and stalling, stuttering and blanking out. Even so, these moments were infrequent at best, and Harlowe was a much better speaker than he had been just two months ago.
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