Page 39 of Iris
The Monarch is in darkest gray, like the other side of the moon, and it’s a simple long shift of a dress.
Her silvery hair is piled up, her high cheekbones and harsh glare on full display. Although I hate everything she stands for, even I can admit she’s stunning, her presence an eclipse to all the grandeur of the room. High ceilings, marble accents, and striking pieces of art that put most museum pieces to shame.
And now we’re staring at each other.
Fredrick rushes in behind me, breathing hard. “Riffraff, my Monarch. I’ll throw her out with the trash.”
He reaches for me, but I jerk my arm away.
“Touch me and you can say hello to singing soprano for the rest of your life.”
He blinks, surprised, but then glares. “Witch.”
“Minion.”
“Enough.” One word and we both fall silent. Sophine raises her hand to her temple. “I need a drink. And I’m already annoyed. Another annoyance won’t make a difference.”
For a moment, he dithers.
“Go, Fredrick,” she snaps. “Burbon. Go.”
After giving me one last glance, he leaves, this time making sure to close the big doors behind him. Now alone, Sophine closes the space between us, and her gaze turns to flint as she walks around me in a circle. She’s studying me like a poodle in a dog show. Scrutinizing. Inspecting. Judging.
Finally, she comes to a stop in front of me. “While I may remember The Last—maybe even attended a concert or two when I was younger—I am a bit puzzled why you decided to come to meet me in jeans and a ripped T-shirt,” she says, nodding at the T-shirt with the rebel Omega girl punk band on it.
I swallow down the retort and just say, “There was an incident with my dress and ice cream—not mine.”
“Well, you’re clearly nothing like your sister.” She shakes her head, tapping her foot in an irritated beat. “Don’t let me now having a direct connection to your family go to your head, Miss Gardener. There will be no leniency. No special treatment.”
The thought of her doing anything other than boss people around from her golden pedestal is damn near impossible. “I don’t expect there to be,” I say.
One pencil-thin eyebrow raises. “You’re the only one who didn’t show in time for her appointment.”
“I’m here now.”
“So you are. Tardy, badly dressed, fighting with my second, and with an attitude that could clear a building of pests.” Sophine stalks over to her large throne-like seat and gathers papers that are on the small table next to it. “Too bad I’ve got other things to do.”
“I’m here,” I say again, “now.”
“And I’m busy. You’re not special and you’re not entitled to my time. I’m a very busy woman.”
Fuck. Heath’s going to kill me.
Mom’s going to need hospitalization, and I just might induce early labor in Violet.
“Come on, Councilwoman—Monarch—please…” I almost invoke Stephan’s name to try and plead to her good side, but I don’t think Violet would be happy about that either. And Stephan might just move them to his Emporian mansion for good.
Lying seems stupid, so I decide to just stick to the truth.
“I was on my way here, I swear. And I had on a dress, one I had actually made myself and was pretty proud of?—”
“You made a dress?”
“I did. Sewing and styling clothes are sort of my thing. I…I wanted to show you that.”
“Are you any good?” she asks, still with an air of indifference. But it’s good if she’s asking me more questions, right?
“Oh yeah. Pretty damn good.”
