A gust of wind blew across the room, grabbed Mordred’s wrist, and tugged up his sleeve. “You’re speckled!” Imulu said, sounding a bit aggrieved.

Mordred sighed and tugged the sleeve back down. He greened his eyes just in time to see the demon lean forward to stare at his nose.

“They’re called freckles, Imulu. People with skin like mine get them, if they’re in the sun too long.”

“Oh.” Imulu kept staring at the freckles on Mordred’s face. “But not all pasty people get spots.”

“Freckles, Imulu. And no, I didn’t say all pasty people get them. People with skin like mine get them.”

“Oh.” Mordred jumped as the demon poked his nose. “There are many kinds of pasty skin, then?”

“Um, yes,” Mordred said, leaning away from Imulu’s touch.

“Oh. Do demons get speckles?”

“Freckles, and I don’t know.”

“Will I get speckles?”

Mordred almost laughed at the alarmed look on Imulu’s face. “Have you ever gotten any before?”

“Nooo…”

“Then probably not.”

“But I don’t spend much time in the sun…”

Mordred paused. “They’re not dangerous, you know.”

“Oh. Are you sure? Humans get spots when they’re sick, I thought.”

“Sometimes. It depends on the sickness. But freckles are just little spots. They’re okay.”

“Oh.” Imulu pondered this. “Is it like how some pasty people go brown if they’re left out too long?”

A pause. “Are you okay? You’re trying to chew your lip off.”

I’m trying not to laugh at you, Mordred thought. “I’m fine, Imulu. Yes, it’s just like that.”

“Okay, then.” The demon vanished from the office in another gust of wind. Freed from the constraints of politeness, Mordred put his head down and laughed himself silly.