Rooming with the Wicked

7 | bigger problems

What does one wear when one needs to cover up numerous scratches and—more importantly—the sky blue piece of art that was my arm? Definitely none of the supposedly elegant dresses Dad had ordered for me for these oh-so-important dinners. A part of me wondered if he would be more upset at the sight of the injuries or the fact that the blue coloring wouldn't match any of the gowns.

Nope, a sweater would have to suffice. Dad could cry about it.

As it turned out, it wasn't Dad whose eyes took in my arguably more casual attire with a deep scowl. No, he was too busy engaging in conversation with two guests wearing the same royal blue ambassador cloaks as he was. It was my stepmother whose glare followed me to my seat diagonally across from her. As usual, she was dressed to impress.

Lips painted scarlet and arms crossed in front of a matching dress, Janice Pierce looked like she belonged in a fashion gala and not at Dad's overrated dinner. The same cold, bluish-green eyes that she'd passed onto her son took in my attire.

I didn't need to be a mind-reader to gather that if it was up to her, she would just love to send me off to my room just like she used to. Too bad I was no longer a child and we no longer lived in the countryside mansion.

A part of me wanted to ask her to rate my sweatshirt out of ten just to see her flustered, but even I knew this wasn't the place—or rather the company. So, I did the next best thing. I ignored her.

"Ariel, you remember Charlie Brooks and Denise Phillips?" Dad asked as soon as I sat down.

"Of course," I lied, putting on what I hoped would pass as an interested smile.

The woman, Ambassador Phillips, smiled and nodded a greeting at me, while the man, Ambassador Brooks, regarded me with a cold expression not unlike my stepmother's. Neither of their faces looked in any way familiar, but that wasn't much of a surprise. They continued their conversation and I folded my hands in my lap and stayed quiet like the accessory I was.

This was going to be a long evening. At least the food would be amazing. Janice and I had never gotten along, but her cooking—when she did cook—was incredible.

The table was set in white and ambassador blue, napkins folded into intricate insignias. Steaming garlic knots, golden-brown egg rolls, and palm-sized bowls of what looked like a mixed-greens salad topping with a white dressing and walnuts covered the light blue tablecloth. Glass bottles filled with water, white wine, and a deep blue liquid were strategically placed in between the appetizers.

No dew juice. Of course that would ruin the color scheme. At least that's what dearest Janice had always told me. Funny how that didn't seem to apply to her. That bright scarlet dress put everything else to shame.

I reached for the water to pour myself a glass, trying to ignore the slight shake of my hand. Multiple drops landed on the pristine white tablecloth. I clenched my jaw.

Maybe it was good there wasn't any dew juice for me to spill. After confirming that no one had seen my little mishap—not that I expected anyone to question me about it—I raised the glass to my lips and took a sip.

My initial plan had been to blend in with my surroundings and mentally prepare for my next alchemy exam by reciting the properties and instructions of various performance-enhancing elixirs, but when Ambassador Phipps—or whatever her name was—practically yelled, "Demons," all thoughts of withenra leaves were erased from my mind.

"...they showed up at the last council meeting," she was saying, exasperated. "They—they shouldn't even have seats! Damn...lowlives."

Thankfully no one was paying attention to me, because I nearly choked on my water.