The morning light was a judgmental, pale yellow, creeping through the silk curtains of the duplex suite like a creditor coming to collect. I didn't feel like a Spanish Mate or a future Luna. I felt like a soggy piece of toast.
My head throbbed from the residual adrenaline of last night's meltdown, but as I sat up, my gaze immediately drifted to the closed door of the second bedroom. The memory of Miri—tiny, unassuming, sweet-faced Miri—hoisting Tasha over her shoulder like a sack of discount flour flickered in my mind.
Miri walked out of the kitchenette just then, looking perfectly composed in her starched apron, carrying a tray of lemon water.
"Good morning, Miss Waverly," she chirped. You'd think she'd spent the night knitting instead of tossing she-wolves around like gym weights.
"Miri," I started, my voice scratchy. "We need to talk about the elephant in the room. Or rather, the drunk sister you carried into the room."
