Hotheaded

“We could say, he’s a son of mine.” He chuckled to himself, then was serious. “He’s more mature than he lets on. He acts out, but has a knowledge of suffering. Hortus was only twelve when Sylvie passed away. He loved her more than his real mother, yet stayed the strongest. My daughter and I were a mess, and leaned on him a lot. Not something we’re proud of, but it is what it is.”