“Are you … related to Finn?” Willow asked as they moved inside a small square box. As the doors slid closed, Iris felt like a hand had closed around her throat, squeezing tighter with each heartbeat.
“She’s his fiancée. Ah, which floor are we going to?” Monty asked as he studied the panel of numbers.
Willow offered him a knowing look as she pressed her finger into the one at the very top, set apart from the others by location, but also because it was a letter, not a number.
P.
“Penthouse! I knew it! I justknewI was meant for the high life.”
Willow shot Iris a smile as she shook her head at the pelican’s materialistic glee.
“I didn’t realize Finn was engaged.”
“Oh, it’s all new. Very hush-hush,” Monty explained. “There will be a whole press conference and such about it.Montague Featherington,” Monty said, offering his wing. “Head of Surface Affairs.”
Willow awkwardly took the bird’s wing and gave it a small shake.
“That sounds like a very important title.”
“Indeed,” Monty agreed. Iris didn’t think it was possible for his head—or massive beak—to get any higher than it was right then.
“Well, this is me. It was so nice to meet you, Iris. Mr. Featherington.”
Monty missed Willow’s smirk toward Iris.
“You too, Willow.”
“If you need anything, that’s me right there in 5B. But you will usually find me on the roof or in the courtyard.”
Before Iris could say anything else, the doors slid closed, and they continued their ascent toward the penthouse.
Beside her, Monty seemed to be trying to stretch himself taller with each floor they moved past.
The floor numbers blinked higher. Iris swayed slightly, clutching the wall like the box might tilt sideways.
Until, finally, the elevator dinged, and the doors slid open.
“Welcome to our new life!” Monty cheered, strutting out of the elevator car, pulling his rolling suitcase behind him. “Look at this! They’re pulling out all the stops!”
Iris glanced over to where a long, rolling rack was sitting in the hallway beside a door. Dozens of articles of clothing hung there. There were intriguing silhouettes and strange fabrics that made Iris want to reach out and run her fingers over.
“Only two beige outfits. These guys know what they’re doing.” Monty had a wing raised, rifling through thematerial. “Huh. Not a single thing for me. That’s … disappointing.”
“To be fair, I don’t think Finn could know you were coming.”
“That certainly makes more sense than forgetting about me,” Monty decided.
Before either of them could knock on the door, it flew open.
“There you are,” the man declared, gaze tracking over Iris in a way that made her squirm. It wasn’t lecherous but clinical. “Yes, I think you will do nicely.”
“Monty Featherington,” Monty said, stepping in front of Iris to offer the man his wing.
The man, unruffled, took Monty’s wing. “Mr. Featherington, good to meet you. Henry Hadden. I’m Finn’s campaign manager.”
So this was the man responsible for Finn Westrock.
He was less manicured than Iris had imagined. His hair was just a bit longer than seemed fashionable among the humans, and he had a strong shadow of a beard.
