I pushed the white, fan-embroidered double doors to my mother's office open, half expecting her to be on the phone, threatening the Orchard, or cursing out the leader of the Ash. “Sigh.” Nope. She was lying on her burgundy couch, drinking herself into a stupor, half staring at me, half zoned out. The room was large, with red walls with gold trim and a cushy red carpet for when she falls over, like the drunk she is.

  I walked past my mother to the large mahogany desk, which was surprisingly clean, and set my backpack on it; my future desk.

  “Wha… go to your room—with that crap, kid.” Mom’s slurred speech reminded me how far from grace she’s fallen. I looked back, glancing at her over my shoulder. There were two cups on the table—she hated drinking alone… Rika must have just left. But it’s Monday. Rika typically came every other Friday when she didn’t think she was too good for the Fan.

  “Aren’t you ashamed to call yourself the queen of the Iron Fan Court?” I said, not expecting a coherent response. I gazed at the bookshelves behind the desk, remembering the ruler she was when she needed a heavy heart and iron veins. Her Yari, mounted on the wall, from when the Ash invaded the Veil; the day Jade’s mother was killed by the leader of the Ash.

  “Why are—you here, Christina?” I turned my head again, catching a glimpse of my mother shambling to her feet, clutching her bottle; her slender figure betrayed her age. “Rika told. Rika told me what you did today, of all days.” I clenched the strap of my backpack and turned my head, setting my eyes on my mother’s Yari.

  “That mouthy wench,” I muttered. Her palm rested gently on my hair.

  “Aw, my little K-Kitten—with a mane of g-gold. Don’t be that way. There was… a time you looked—”

  I turned, slapping her hand away. She studied me through watery eyes and a pouty face half covered by long, messy black hair. My mother’s complexion was softer thanks to the wine, but a dragon lay dormant beneath that childish demeanor. “Ouch,” she cooed. “Be gentle with me, Christina,” she said, waving her hand. If she were really hurt, she would put the bottle down. She was a slob, and the dress she wore made me consider the company of a man, but the smell of sage was Rika’s signature scent.

  I squared up to Trish, measuring her the way I would any woman, ignoring her status. “You’re a disgrace. How can you call yourself the queen of the Court, dressing and drinking like an asobi plaything!”

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  She held her head and moaned, swaying and stepping closer, backing me up against the desk. “And there it goes, my buzz,” she said, shaking her bottle. “What’s your deal now?”

  The mahogany desk pressed against my lower back. Cornered, I flashed my teeth. “You shouldn’t be queen, you're drunk,” I growled.

  The air between us was scarce as her face drew closer to mine. The smell of alcohol permeated, making it harder to breathe in untainted air. My heart raced.

  She sighed, lifting her bottle above my head, tilting the bottle ever so slightly. Spilling your wine on a queen’s head is like declaring a death match. If I had more space, I’d grab her Yari and kill her before the first drop touched me.

  I could see the wine droplet forming, sealing my fate in ritual combat. My arm flinched at the thought of being caught in close-quarters combat with her, but I regained composure. Suddenly, the bottle turned upright. “‘Screw you, kid. You’ve killed my buzz, but I won’t let you waste my wine.”

  I winced at the thought. “It’s cheap wine, anyway!” She shuffled back to the couch, but didn’t sit down. Instead, she ran her free hand through her messy black hair and pointed down at the sofa. I scoffed because I know what she wants: to pretend she is a mother.

  I walked to the burgundy sofa and plopped down, looking up in anticipation of her performance. She waited. One of her dress straps had fallen from her shoulder.

  We locked eyes.

  She pointed her finger and made some weird kanji in the air.

  “Tsk!” I lay down across the sofa, and the smell of sage filled the air, almost like Rika never left. Trish smiled at me. I hated it, so I closed my eyes.

  “Rika told me that you claimed, yet another b-boy. Is that—true?”

  I pictured Antwon's face as I pressed him against the wall. “Yeah,” I said, not knowing what else to say.

  “And let me guess, he swooned—happy to be chosen by a queen.”

  His defiant green eyes popped into my head. “No, Mom. He told me no. Let me start from the beginning.”

  ***

  “And then I hugged him, snot and all, on the dirty-ass floor in the boys' bathroom in full clan regalia.” I opened my eyes to the burning lights and softness of the couch, but my mother wasn’t hovering over me.

  I turned my head to the side, surprised to find her squatting next to me; her face aflame.

  Bottle on the floor, she extended her hands and caressed my cheek while running the other through my hair. “My little Sprout is blossoming,” she said, finally resembling a mother.

  I touched her hand because part of me wanted her to look at me the way a mother looks at her daughter, and I hated it. “I would love to meet him, Kitten.”