The gifting ceremony continued.
There were more sparkly boxes, more overly complicated bows, and more nobles trying to outdo each other with gifts that sparkled louder than their titles. Honestly, it was starting to blur together.
And then…
He came.
The one I hated the most.
The walking wart of the empire.
The human embodiment of a paper cut.
Marquess Everett.
Even his name made my molars ache.
If this were a novel (which it was, technically), then he was the one responsible for my banishment in the future. The snake in a fancy coat. The weasel with a fan collection. The reason I sometimes fantasized about launching mashed potatoes at dignitaries.
I don't know why, but every time I see him, some deeply buried rage in my tiny body flares to life. My nerves go pop pop pop like bubble wrap.
And his eyes—ugh.
That permanently constipated glare, like someone just served him soup with a fly in it.
Should I just… order someone to pluck out those eyes?
