Friday morning arrived with the subtlety of a nuclear explosion, thanks to my sister's uncanny ability to wake up before her alarm and make enough noise to rival a construction site. I'd packed my overnight bag last night for my first mandatory weekend at Valentine Manor, mostly to avoid this exact scenario: Iris micromanaging my packing at six in the morning.
Too late.
"You only packed two shirts? For the entire weekend?" Iris stood in my bedroom doorway (technically the living room, but we pretend the couch is a bed for my dignity's sake) with her hands on her hips. Her dark hair was piled into a messy bun that defied gravity, and she wore those ridiculous cat-patterned pajamas that were two sizes too big.
I sighed, slinging my bag over my shoulder. "Three shirts. And two pairs of pants. It's two days, not a month-long expedition to Antarctica."
"But what if you spill something? Or what if there's, like, a fancy dinner? Or what if—"
