“I see you kept Fred.”
“Well, I haven’t found a new home for him yet,” Sylvie said, deliberately omitting the part where she was creeped out by the idea of touching anything that might be enchanted.
“He might already be doing some work,” Arla said with a knowing little smile. “I heard you went to Rhavor’s farm—and he didn’t throw you out. You must’ve done some serious convincing. Or you’re just his type.”
Sylvie flushed a very betraying shade of pink, the heat crawling up her neck.
“We discussed deliveries,” she managed, her voice a pitch higher than normal.
“Well, well,” Arla replied, in the tone of someone who did not believe that was the entire story by a long shot. “He’s territorial on a good day. Doesn’t let anyone in unless the town’s on fire.”
“It’s a beautiful place,” she said quietly.
Arla’s face softened.
“I’m glad you like it. It’s his whole life. And he never even planned to be a farmer.”
“No?”
That shocked Sylvie.
Arla shook her head.
“No. That was his fiancée’s idea.”
“Fiancée?”
Sylvie’s stomach dropped, a cold, heavy stone settling in her gut.
“Yes.” Arla hesitated. “It’s complicated. They were young. In love, probably. Her family had more money than sense and sponsored her… pursuits.”
A faint edge crept into Arla’s voice.
“Rhavor wanted her happy.”
Sylvie stayed very still, her chest tightening.
“But farm life didn’t align with her spiritual calendar,” Arla added dryly. “She wasn’t an early riser either. Goats don’t wait for your energy to align with the universe for milking. Chickens don’t manifest their own corn through the power of positive thinking.”
Sylvie snorted despite herself.
“She left,” Arla finished simply. “And he didn’t take it well. Dragons are hoarders, Sylvie. When they attach, they attach. Their mate is their most precious hoard.”
“Do they lock you indoors?” Sylvie asked before she could stop herself.
Arla laughed outright.
“No. It means when they choose a mate, they bond for life.”
“They guard, and they build around you, and they never forget.”
That felt worse somehow.
The idea of Rhavor—big, powerful, brooding Rhavor—being abandoned by the person he had chosen as his “hoard.” Sylvie found herself unexpectedly, inconveniently sorry for him.
Before she could ask anything else, Arla clapped her hands sharply, the sound echoing in the empty shop.
“Right. Marco. Curtains first. Coffee second. Move it!”
