“You’re the only saint left in this city, Iris.” She takes the stool at the counter and unwraps the muffin without removing her sunglasses.
She’s bone-tired underneath the theatrics. I’ve seen Camille planning a society wedding across two time zones on three hours of sleep. Whatever’s gone wrong this time is, by her standards, considerable. By mine, apocalyptic.
“It’s the least I can do, until you tell me who you’re murdering.”
Camille takes the sunglasses off and sets them on top of her tablet. “Every florist in this city is booked solid for the Stavros wedding. It’s completely ridiculous.”
The Stavros wedding. It sounds familiar. The minotaur mogul and his human bride have been all over the tabloids for weeks. Just this morning, two teenagers were chatting about it on the subway. I, of course, tried not to listen. But it’s impossible to escape.
I think of a certain djinn who brought me a bouquet of priceless flowers just the other day. “Surely, one monster can’t hijack every supplier in the city.”
“You’d think,” Camille groans, and it’s definitely not for theatrics. “But even the studios out in the suburbs are telling me they can’t take a single arrangement for the next three weeks. The Stavros construction empire doesn’t do things in half measures.”
“Most monster billionaires don’t,” I mutter.
“Tell me about it,” Camille mumbles around a mouthful of muffin. “The Lawson Foundation is hosting its annual Spring Showcase in eleven days. My contract specifies fresh floral arrangements at every venue station. No exceptions. Not even for minotaur-induced disasters.”
I can’t help her with something like this. I don’t have her strength or her exuberance. The only thing I can do is pass her another muffin and hope it’ll be enough.
It is. Camille finishes her first treat and smoothly moves on to the second. She takes two bites before squinting at me through the morning light. “But enough about me. What have you been up to? Did you finish your paper?”
I let out a deep sigh. After all the time I spent reading battered paperbacks on old salt laws, the result feels a little… anticlimactic. “Handed in. Got it back the day before yesterday. An A minus.”
Camille tilts her head at me, and a stray lock of dark hair falls out of its knot. “That’s good, right? Isn’t this for the teacher who fails students for using Comic Sans?”
In fairness, Comic Sans is a pretty egregious crime against all fonts. But that’s not the point here. I fidget and try not to show my discontent.
Camille narrows her eyes at me. “Iris… I’m about to say something, and you won’t like it.”
“I often don’t,” I reply. I love her to death, but the truths she delivers are often painful.
She sets the remaining piece of muffin down. “You received an A minus on a paper about Phoenician customs duties. By everyone else’s standards, it’d be a great result. But you hate it with a passion. I can tell. You need to leave this shop occasionally.”
I’ve heard this lecture before. I could deliver Camille’s lines myself if she ever decided not to. And today, I’m not in the mood to hear her out.
“I leave this shop. I leave it at four every afternoon.”
Camille scoffs. “You leave it at four to go to a library. You go home. You come back here.” Camille gives me a look that somehow manages not to be pitying. “That’s not leaving. That’s migrating.”
“My migration patterns are stable. I find that comforting.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake. Now we both sound like griffins.” Camille pulls the tablet across the counter and taps something into itwithout breaking eye contact. “I’m picking you up on Friday at eight. We’re going somewhere with people in it. I’m not negotiating. Wear something that is actually… a color.”
The last time I bought clothing for an evening out was approximately two years ago. Camille knows this. But now that she’s made a decision, there’s no way to make her change her mind. “I have colorful clothes, Camille. But they’re not… outing-appropriate.”
“I suppose that’s true. No worries. I’ll get you something by Friday. We have time.”
Normally, I’d try to reason with her, to do some damage control. But I can barely hear her anymore.
The air in the shop has started to shift. It does this every morning at this hour. The ambient light has sharpened by a fraction. The refrigeration unit has dropped its pitch by half a note. My glasses have started to fog up.
Three weeks ago, I’d have thought I was imagining it. But I know better now. I know exactly what time it is and who’s about to walk through the door.
After all, the billionaire djinn has become a regular in The Daily Grind, and I still don’t know how to deal with him.
The door of The Daily Grind opens. Camille is still mid-sentence about the social consequences of my wardrobe when Rakan steps through.
“Good morning, Iris.” He doesn’t raise his voice. He never does, because he doesn’t need to. Even now, he effortlessly draws attention to himself through his sheer presence.
