#hamishosborneedit

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The lodge’s welcoming white door opened. “You look like hell.” A wiry daemon with dark hair, twinkling brown eyes, and a hooked nose stood with his hand on the latch and inspected his best friend from head to foot.         Hamish Osborne had met Matthew Clairmont at Oxford nearly twenty years ago. Like most creatures, they’d been taught to fear each other and were uncertain how to behave. The two became inseparable once they’d realized they shared a similar sense of humor and the same passion for ideas.         Matthew’s face registered anger and resignation in quick succession. “Nice to see you, too,” he said gruffly, dropping his bags by the door. He drank in the house’s cold, clear smell, with its nuances of old plaster and aging wood, and Hamish’s unique aroma of lavender and peppermint.

Hamish Osborne had met Matthew Clairmont at Oxford nearly twenty years ago. Like most creatures, they’d been taught to fear each other and were uncertain how to behave. The two became inseparable once they’d realized they shared a similar sense of humor and the same passion for ideas.