I shot him a look.
They stopped.
“I mean, you tell me something first,” I clarified.
He looked a question.
“Back in Nimue’s . . . thing,” I said, because I doubted “Winnebago” would translate. “You wanted to know my name. My real one. Why?”
I immediately wished I hadn’t asked, because a lot of the fun faded from his face.
“It’s okay,” I said quickly. “You don’t have to answer.”
“No, it’s fair.” He looked up at me, through a fall of brown hair. “You know the old couple I told you about? The ones who raised me?”
I nodded. After Morgaine’s supposed death, Rosier had dumped him on a farmer’s family, who’d thought he was basically Satan incarnate, and then fled. It made me angry all over again, just thinking about it. I knew he’d had a reason: that if Pritkin didn’t end up with his power, he’d be better off growing up in this world, where he had at least a small chance of fitting in. I even agreed with it. That is, I agreed with the idea.
The execution, however, had left the fey knowing more about Pritkin’s true heritage than he did.
“I spent most of my time with the old woman,” he continued, “but one day the old man decided to go fishing, and agreed to let me tag along. I was quite excited. I was never allowed to go anywhere—officially.”
“But you went anyway.”
He grinned. “But I hadn’t been caught in a while, so I suppose this was their way of rewarding me.”
I rolled my eyes and started on the other side of what I was deciding was more dust mop than wig.
“In any case, we were halfway to the lake when we met one of the farmer’s friends. They stopped to talk, and I wandered off, trying to catch frogs for bait. They must have thought I was out of earshot.”
“And what did they say?” I asked, carefully. Because the smile was gone again, lost—not in the usual anger—but in sadness.
“The old man’s friend asked about me, specifically why they would take me in when they didn’t even know what I was. There were so many Changelings then, some who grew up to be dangerous, that it was a fair question.”
I nodded.
“But the old man said he wasn’t worried. My father had dropped me off, and my father was human. Making my mother the fey—or part fey, as he’d been told—in this instance.”
“The opposite of the usual situation.”
“Yes. The old man believed that she was some tavern wench or farmer’s daughter, a descendant of one of the Returned that my father had lain with for a night or two. Then passed by the same way in a year and realized he had a son. One he was willing to support in case I turned out to have any magic.”
I didn’t say anything. That was uncomfortably close to the truth.
“He gave them money and a name—Myrddin. But he never gave them hers. The old man joked that he wasn’t sure he even knew it—or that she knew his.” Pritkin’s tone was light, but his jaw was tight. He saw me notice, and relaxed it. “I would want any child of mine to know, that’s all.”
“So you make sure, if things are getting a little heated—”
“To ask. Although I have usually done so before that!”
I remembered that he’d introduced himself to me, the first time we met here, despite it being in a somewhat . . . compromising . . . situation. He hadn’t gotten my real name then, but he’d been persistent. Because he’d want any child of his to know who he was, where he’d come from, what he was. Instead of growing up never knowing anything, like he had done.
And, okay, right then I genuinely hated Rosier.
“Hold on!” Pritkin said, a hand on his fake hair, and I realized that I’d been combing a little too hard. Like enough to pull out a small patch of fur, or whatever the matted thing was made of.
I frowned at the comb. Even when wearing a wig, Pritkin had terrible hair. It was like he was cursed.
“Your turn,” he said, and for a moment, I didn’t know what he meant.