The Tyrant's Tomb

Minus the rhinestone cat-eye frames, her face looked older, her eyes
darker and more serious. I would have even called her mature, had she not
come back from her day at the stables wearing a glittery green T-shirt that
read VNICORNES IMPERANT!
“What if I don’t have a plan?” I asked.
I expected Meg to throw her other shoe at me. Instead she said, “You
do.”
“I do?”
“Yep. You might not have it all put together yet, but you will by
tomorrow.”
I couldn’t tell if she was giving me an order, or expressing faith in me, or
just vastly underestimating the dangers we faced.
Continue to act strong, Lupa had told me. It is how we start.
“Okay,” I said tentatively. “Well, for starters, I was thinking that we
could—”
“Not now! Tomorrow. I don’t want spoilers.”
Ah. There was the Meg I knew and tolerated.
“What is it with you and spoilers?” I asked.
“I hate them.”
“I’m trying to strategize with y—”
“Nope.”
“Talking through my ideas—”
“Nope.” She tossed aside her shoe, put a pillow over her head, and
commanded in a muffled voice: “Go to sleep!”
Against a direct order, I had no chance. Weariness washed over me, and
my eyelids crashed shut.