“Forget about Harry,” Ingrid advised, for the seventeenth time in the past seventeen minutes, or so it seemed to Hilda, who was, if she had to admit it, even more sick and tired of her half-sister than she was of her ex-boyfriend.
“Okay,” she said, not meaning it in any way, “Harry who?”
“That’s more like it,” Ingrid sat back and smiled. Wasn’t it enough that they were on the tropical cruise vacation they had always dreamed of? Yet here was the brat, same as always, whining about something. If she were Harry she would have dumped the girl ages ago. ‘Now, now‘, she said to herself, ‘be kind to your sister, even if she was raised by wolves or whatever.‘
It was true. They were riding high above the water on the luxuriest deck of the luxuriest cruise ship in the whole of the Indian Ocean, revisiting the ancient trade routes that once brought the first half-decent food to Europe after millennia of bland, tasteless cuisine, and they were gobbling it all up. Hilda was certain she’d gained fifty pounds already, and yet she still wasn’t large enough for that brute. Of course she knew he was holding out for another fifty. She could see it plain as day.
‘And it was foxes, anyway‘, she muttered under her breath. No matter how often she proved it, Ingrid would never believe in Hilda’s natural telepathy. What a pain in the ass it was! If it weren’t for Harry, she would ditch herself at the next deserted island and never have to deal with a stupid humanoid brain ever again.