"For what purpose?" I ask.
Lancelot drummed his fingers in his elbows. Looking back and forth to Magnus and Jesper. He's hesitating. I can tell by how he folded the end of his sleeves. Played with the hems. Absent mindedly staring in empty air.
"Ancient Ones are wary of mortals. Wary of us. Because of what happened three hundred years ago between the Faeries and the Ruler of Silverkeep."
His words hit me more than I expect it will. He shoot me with his laser eyes I doubt my identity is already exposed to him. Lancelot's expression makes me scream silently on the inside. I dig my nails to the deepest part of my skin and claw at the surface.
Hoping scratches can neutralize my facial expression.
This is not good.
Lancelot suspects.
Of my identity.
Why?