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The invitation laid accusingly on the floor of our burrow.
“I’ve been invited to Bethalzgruub’s babies shower,” I said, examining it. It was silk embroidered on a blue heron skin that had been stretched and treated to paper thinness. Delicate, impractical, and probably cost more than what I made in a month.
“Who?” said Vezuubit, from the other room.
“Bethalzgruub,” I said. “You know, the one from work? The one who lived abroad for a while and always finds a way to bring it up in conversation?”
“Hmm,” said Vezuubit.
With the claw of my rightmost forelimb, I placed the invitation onto the table. “We’ve gone out to dinner with her and her broodpartner before, remember? He works under Wall Street. They’re both insufferable.”
“Oh, right... Didn’t she just have a brood last
