Feistyface does as he’s told, no doubt wishing he had a bit of poison handy. Even if he did, it wouldn’t matter with me, so I don’t have to watch him too closely.
I turn my attention to examining Pupadoll instead.
He’s small, even for a male. If we were standing, his antennae would barely brush my chin. The longer I look at him, the smaller he tries to make himself, curling inward as if the wall might open and swallow him whole if he can convince it that he’s bite-sized.
His pale exoskeleton is streaked with black, and the stripe pattern around his eyes curves downward at the edges in a resting attitude of melancholy.
I tug open the knotted scarf at his neck that marks him as a Malphigy Brother. He’s one of the few who took the time to put it on for my middle-of-the-night visit. Maybe
