She’d been pretending to struggle this entire time. Stoking my fear. She probably could’ve lifted me with a single finger. Fresh anger burned white-hot in my chest. “Now,” she said, immensely pleased with herself, “tell me that I’m an excellent singer.” “You—you—” “I’m waiting,” she trilled. “You’re an excellent singer. You sing like a bird. An angel. And if you don’t lift me up this second, I’m going to snap your pretty neck.” She waited another second just to spite me. Then another. And another. “Well, now that we’ve sorted that.”
