“They have paying clients.”
“I could take more emergency calls,” I said. “Expand into…”
“You’re already working yourself to the bone.” He slumped back in his chair, looking deflated rather than angry. “I failed, Lysa. Your mother would be…”
“Don’t.”
But he was already lost in it, staring at the ledger without seeing it.
“There’s our hero, back from saving the town’s dragons one at a time.”
I turned to find Briony in the doorway, her pretty auburn hair elaborately plaited with ribbons the colour of spring grass, her emerald skirts swirling as she swept into the room. She always dressed like she was attending a garden party rather than visiting a struggling clinic. Today’s blouse had delicate embroidery along the collar, impractical lace at the cuffs. Everything abouther was soft and lovely and utterly out of place amongst our dusty shelves and peeling paint.
My own leather apron was still splattered with drake saliva. My trousers were mud-stained at the knees.
She perched on the edge of Da’s desk, swinging her legs, her bright eyes fixed on me with that particular gleam that meant trouble. “I had lunch with miner Herbert’s daughter today. She couldn’t stop talking about how you calmed their drake with a touch. Very romantic, the way she described it. All breathless and wide-eyed.”
“It wasn’t romantic. It was arcane animal care.”
“Mm-hmm.” She tilted her head, the ribbons catching the lamplight. “Speaking of, when are you going to find your love, Lysa? You can’t spend your whole life married to this infirmary.”
Heat crawled up my neck. Gods, not her as well. “And what about you? Still mooning over that apprentice silversmith who doesn’t know you exist?”
“He knows I exist.” Her chin lifted. “He smiled at me yesterday.”
“Revolutionary.”
“At least I’mtrying.“ She leaned forward, her green eyes suddenly too knowing for her age, too sharp beneath all that softness. “When was the last time you even looked at someone that way?”
Never. The answer sat heavy in my chest.
“I’m looking at the account books,” I said. “Very romantic.”
Da made a sound that might have been a laugh or a sob. Briony’s expression softened.
A knock came sharp and urgent, three quick raps that made us all jump.
Briony slid off the desk. When she opened the door, the silversmith’s son stood framed in the doorway, rain-soaked and red-faced. Behind him, his father held a canvas-wrapped bundle against his chest.
“Oh.” Briony’s voice went soft and breathy, quite different from the teasing tone she’d used with me. “Lorin. You’re... wet.”
The boy’s ears went crimson. “It’s—there’s rain. Outside.”
“I can see that.” She touched his sleeve, her fingers lingering. “You must be freezing.”
“We’re sorry for the late hour.” The father stepped forward, tactfully ignoring his son’s flaming face. “But we thought... well, you’d want to see this straightaway.”
I wiped my hands on my apron, already moving towards the examination table. “What is it?”
“I found it this morning. In the garden, near the forge.” He laid the bundle down with gentleness. “The poor thing was stone dead. No marks, no signs of struggle. Just... gone.”
Behind me, I heard Briony laugh at something Lorin mumbled. “Your hair’s all mussed from the wind. Here, let me—“
I tuned them out, my fingers working at the canvas knots.
My father appeared at my shoulder, pulling his worn notebook from a pocket. “How old was the drake? Any previous health concerns?”
“Three years. Healthy as anything.” The silversmith’s voice tightened. “She was hunting mice just yesterday.”
