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In truth, maybe Larkspur was not his uncle—he knew Larkspur was not Naniko's brother. They were far more distant than that, but as the youth had yet to acquire such terminology, uncle was sufficient for now, and even once he learned Larkspur's true relation, he would likely continue to call him uncle—that was how the sable-shaded man was thought of in the creamy-furred youth's mind. There was an almost mechanical smile on the Harlowe's face at the other man's introduction; he was pleased that Larkspur was no stranger to this man. Then again, Conor was not King, and in retrospect it was understandable that the Chance boy had not known Larkspur the last time Harlowe had come here.
“My mother's left Phoenix Valley, and Larkspur knows our family better than me or Mother. I want to learn from him,” he said succinctly. He had all of his notes on everything and still, he knew nothing. “I can read and write—would this provide service your pack?” he inquired. Harlowe knew he could not provide so well as many others, but maybe Conor would have a use for him yet—he sincerely hoped so. If he did not find a home here, he was not sure what to do—he had to be accepted here. The youth shifted his weight, trying to quell the nervousness growing steadily in him.
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