“It’s just a book,” Henry insisted.
“It’smybook. And I’m tired of it falling on the floor because you think I walk funny.”
“Funny, I could work with. You’re walking like it’s some sort of … mating ritual.”
“Mating ritual?” Iris sputtered. “I’m amermaid. Everything about us is very … fluid.”
“Fluid is fine. Sensual is not going to work with our voting demographics.”
“I’m kind of sick of hearing about demographics and polls and—”
“That’s the whole point of all of—”
“What’s going on here?” Finn asked, closing the door behind him as he moved inside.
Iris looked over, her shoulders slipping from up by her ears to a more relaxed posture. But she took advantage of Henry’s surprise and yanked the book out of his hands. She hugged it to her chest, and Finn couldn’t help but feel a warm sensation spread across his chest when he saw the cover. It was the book he’d gotten spelled for her.
“Finn. Good. We are trying to do some training, but your fiancée here is being—”
“Call me ‘difficult’ one more time,” Iris grumbled.
“Now, now, we’re all getting our feathers out of place,” another voice said, tone calming.
Turning, Finn saw a large bird standing on his kitchen island.
“Is that … is that the pelican from the restaurant?”
“That reminds me,” the bird said, “I need to give them a scathing review. Can I borrow someone’s phone?”
“Since when do you know how to use a phone?” Iris asked. Finn guessed thatshedidn’t even know how to use one.
“Not all of us have been living under a rock—or under the ocean,” the bird told her. “Of course, I know how to use a phone. You know, in theory.”
“Finn, this is Mr. Montague Featherington. He is Iris’s Head of Surface Affairs.” The pitch of Henry’s voice and slight tug at his lips told Finn that they shouldn’t take the bird’s position too seriously. “He will be staying in your office.”
“Of course. I’m happy to have you, Mr. Featherington.”
“You can call him Monty. He’s being pretentious.” Iris shot a fond smile toward the pelican.
“Am I being pretentious, or am I simply committed to the gravitas of my role?”
“What, exactly, is that role, Monty?” she shot back. Her sea glass eyes were dancing.
“Well, I am your handler, of course. Your buffer. Your first line of defense against scandal, bad lighting, and subpar crab cakes. Speaking of, shouldn’t we be breaking for lunch?”
“Of course. We can order anything you want,” Finn said. His gaze slid around the apartment. “Henry …” he said, tone frustrated.
“What?” Henry asked, avoiding eye contact.
“Where is he?”
“Where’s who? That hell-beast you call a companion?”
“A hell-beast?” Iris asked, stiffening.
“He’s talking about mycat,” Finn explained. “A cat he made me adopt, I might add.”
“Pets soften your image. Adopted pets speak to the masses who worry about overcrowding in our shelters. The optics were all there. It’s notmyfault you picked the nastiest one of the bunch.”
