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A Whistle

Sera

“My opinion,” Olivia said with joking loftiness, “is that we spend more of Mr. Ricci’s money.

Joyce smacked her arm. “You’ve got quite a tongue lately, girl. The staff doesn’t get to decide what alcohol to purchase unless explicitly told to. It’s always been the family that chooses.”

“They always buy from auctions,” Olivia protested, “and there are none coming up, as far as I’m aware—which is odd for the holidays—and Killian hasn’t bought anything in a while.”

Joyce shook her head like a disappointed mother as she stuffed the last Christmas wreath in its box. “Then you go waggle that tongue in front of him.”

Olivia’s smile put the devil’s to shame when she turned to me. “Why me when Sera can make a convincing argument? She can talk him into cutting off his own finger.”

I glared at her from where I crouched in front of the box I was filling with fluffy fake snow. “That’s awfully crude, Olivia.”

She raised her hands in innocence. “Sorry. It just slipped out.” She sighed and knelt t
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