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“So.” The American girl crosses her arms and fixes Shuri with a narrow-eyed stare. “You’re a monarch.”
Shuri’s eyebrows lift. “You are a student at a for-profit university whose degree will confer on you social and financial cache?”
MJ snorts. “Touché. Although I worked hard for that, it isn’t just because of some imaginary connection to god or whatever.”
“It is not imaginary,” Shuri says, her voice tight. “The great panther Bast is in the green veldt of my family. I saw her there when I drank the herb.” Then she shrugs. “But I would not vote for me, no.”