I'm late, again. And I hate myself for it.
It's a quarter past seven as I step out of my car. Every muscle in my body is screaming at me, and my stomach feels like it’s about to digest its own lining. Gross image, I know.
Ugh. I need to catch up on sleep this weekend.
My wings ache with that deep, bone-tired fatigue that comes from holding myself rigid for hours. I've been in back-to-back meetings all day, fielding questions about quarterly taxes and business deductions while simultaneously checking my phone every five minutes to make sure the house hasn't burned down.
So far, so good.
I grab my work bag from the passenger seat and mentally prepare for the evening. I need to help Matthew with his math homework, probe Zoe on her essay on the Civil War, prep tomorrow's lunches, answer the seventeen emails currently sitting in my inbox, and somehow squeeze in twenty minutes of meditation like my yoga-instructor mother keeps nagging me about.
Spoiler: that last one's not happening.
The moment I open the car door, I know something is wrong.
The noise coming from my house is barely muffled by the heavy oak front door. Voices are raised inside, all talking over each other in a cacophony that makes my stomach clench with dread. I hurry up the walkway, my short legs moving fast, my heels clicking sharply against the pavement. My wings flap behind me, helping me move faster.
I'm not even on the front porch when the door opens to reveal Margaret Thornburn, my nanny.
The stern-faced orc woman that came to me with glowing recommendations on her firm yet loving discipline methods comes storming out of the house, clutching her purse in front of her like a battle shield. Her sensible cardigan is askew, the pale-green skin of her face is flushed an alarming shade of red, and her yellow eyes are blazing with fury.
But that's not what makes me stop dead in my tracks, my brain drawing a blank.
Her iron-gray hair, normally styled in a military-tight bun at her nape, is shorn in what could generously be qualified as a bob. If a bob haircut involved pieces of tape stuck to it?
Oh, no. Please don't let it be another prank.
"Mrs. Everdeen!" Margaret's voice is shrill enough to make me wince. "I am done. Do you hear me? DONE!"
I stop at the bottom of the porch steps, my mind racing to catch up.
"What happened?"
"Your daughter is a menace!" Margaret gestures wildly with her purse, waving it in the air toward the open door. "An absolute menace! I have never, in my thirty years of childcare—never—been treated with such blatant disrespect and… and… violence!"
My pulse spikes as my eyes catch on a piece of tape flapping in the wind like a white flag behind the nanny's head.
"Violence? What are you talking about?"
Margaret thrusts her head forward, displaying her hair, clearly butchered with scissors and pieces of tape still stuck on it in places.
"Packing tape and super glue!" Margaret hisses. "Your daughter rigged a trap with packing tape across the hallway and then proceeded to pretend Matthew was injured to lure me across it!"
I close my eyes briefly, pinching the bridge of my nose.
Packing tape. Super glue. An injured nanny.
Like I needed this day to get any worse.
"I will be warning about you on every nanny placement site I can find," Margaret continues, her voice rising again. "That child is out of control, and frankly, Mrs. Everdeen, I question your parenting if you think this behavior is acceptable!"
The words hit hard. My jaw tightens. My exhaustion evaporates, replaced by a cold, brittle anger.
"I don't think it's acceptable," I say, keeping my tone in check. "Which is why I told you about Zoe's past behavior before offering you the position. You said you could handle it."
"Handle that future delinquent?" Margaret's laugh is sharp and humorless. "I'm a nanny, not a miracle worker! That girl needs structure and consequences. None of which she's getting!"
My fingers tighten around the strap of my bag. I want to scream. I want to defend Zoe. I want to ground Zoe until she grows gray hair. I want to collapse on the porch and cry.
