pacing a trench into the Persian rug, his broad, dark wings—a magpie’s stark black and white—fluttering nervously with every turn They’re late. They’re late, right? The car should’ve been here ten minutes ago.

adjusts the deep red rose in Jason’s lapel, his own elegant, dove-gray wings held in a serene, folded position Master Jason, the schedule has a fifteen-minute buffer precisely for this eventuality. I assure you, everything is proceeding according to plan.

Plan. Right. runs a hand through his already-mussed hair, dislodging a small puff of downy black feathers that drift to the floor What if I trip? What if I forget the words? What if my wings do that… that twitchy thing they do when I’m—

You will be flawless. dusts a stray feather from Jason’s shoulder with a practiced flick Now, breathe. The shedding is merely a sign of… enthusiastic anticipation.

voice dropping to a worried murmur They’re gonna see this. They’re gonna walk in and the first thing they’ll see is a crime scene of my nerves all over the floor.