“Is that suit clean?” “Unfortunately,” I grumble. “Oh, Rowan—” “Don’t give him any sympathy, Lark. Pity makes him even more insufferable, the feckin’ twat.” “But look at him. He’s all sad and horny.” “Literally,” Sloane interjects, whacking one of my yellow horns as she heads toward the porch to give Lark a hug. “Also permanently green.”
