The object is hand made, lumpy misshapen clay still holding a child’s fingerprints and painted in garish primary colours. Red skin, yellow hair (made from pushing clay through a tea strainer) and blue body. Hands like a skinned corpse were bigger than what, for all intents and purposes, was the head. Jasfoup held it gingerly and looked down at the eager Friday face of his surrogate niece.
“It’s lovely, Lucy,” he said. “Um… what is it, exactly?”
“It’s you, silly,” Lucy grinned, used to his jokes.
“Me?” Jasfoup had something in his eye and gave it a rub. “That’s really sweet of you,” he said, “but why did you make a model of me?”
“Mrs. Simmons said we could make a statue of anyone we admired and you take me walking and fishing and hunting and painting so I made you and a stand and everything.”
Jasfoup smiled. “I think it’s a wonderful statue,” he said, “and I think it deserves a tea-cake and a chocolate milkshake--”
“…Banana milkshake but I think you’re old enough to learn another lesson.”
“Give the statue to your father and tell him it’s him.”
Lucy frowned. “It looks nothing like him.”
“I know,” said the demon, quite truthfully, “but this lesson is called tact. Just say it’s him and he’ll be very pleased.”
“Double scoop at least,” said the demon, his smile a response to hers. “And you and I will always know who it was really for.”