Mom sighs, focuses on my arm. “Does it still hurt?”
“No.”
A sigh of relief. “You’re drinking your silver?”
“I do hope so.” Dr. Burke’s voice floats through the room. We turn to find the tall wiry man with black hair and the lightest gray eyes I’ve ever seen. I’ve known Dr. Burke my whole life. Some years it felt like I interacted with him more than my own father.
And yet no small talk precedes the visit. He’s learned not to ask questions, likely thanks to extra payments, and I don’t know much of this man who has seen me at my most vulnerable. A crafting mishap at five. A horrible flu at seven. A few broken fingers at eight, a concussion at thirteen when I started riding. The list goes on and on.
Dr. Burke cracks open what’s left of my cast and inspects my arm with puzzled awe. “You’ve been taking just one dose of silver a day? No more?”
I frown. I don’t even want to take that. “Just the one.”
“I’ve never seen anything like this.” Dr. Burke laughs. “You’ve healed fast. Abnormally fast.”
“That’s good,” Mom lies. I glance over at her chewing her lip. We both wish my arm had stayed broken a while longer. “I’ll be sure to tell yourfather.” Another lie. This time also a message to me. We willnotbe telling Dad. “But maybe you should recast anyway,” she suggests.
“That would do more harm than good.” Dr. Burke pats my shoulder. “And we’ve got to get you out on that track in time for training and the start of the season.”
“Oh, wonderful.”
Dr. Burke remains unfazed at Mom’s lackluster tone. Instead, he’s all-consumed with my arm. “I’d love if all my patients could heal this quickly. Any idea, James, what you did differently? Did you take any silver tea before the start of the race? Do you know what dragon the metal came from?”
Dragon, no. Person, yes. Farren must have made me swallow silver after she pulled Hort and me from the water. It was odd how my arm felt better within days. But after what I just saw and Dr. Burke’s enthusiasm, I can further confirm Farren Walsh is the best silver-crafter I’ve ever met.
It’s my turn to lie though. “No idea,” I say, instead of announcing the truth I’ve felt since I was twelve years old. I got lucky enough to meet a girl named Farren Walsh. Two weeks ago, I got even luckier she decided to save my life.
CHAPTER ELEVENWHEN YOU’RE CAUGHT
FARREN
It’s hours before James returns. The screech of a car outside my bedroom window and the creak of the door are the only real signs. Then the faint chatter of my parents welcoming James home.
I didn’t tell them the whole truth. I said I crafted Bex to a stop, but left out the bit about James suspecting. Some part of me feels I could still persuade him I’m not a silver-crafter. After everything, I never crafted that silver cuff off my wrist. He doesn’t have any evidence.
At least, that’s what I keep telling myself.
I unfold from my desk chair. I’ll go to the loft, play to his ego, somehow invalidate what he felt today. I can do that. I have to do that. But two steps to the door and I backtrack, throw myself on my bed, and replay my strategy for the hundredth time. Nothing feels like a good enough excuse, and the problem is James’s argument remains sound. What reason would I have to hide this?
A knock whacks me out of my thoughts. Mom or Dad have been checking on me throughout the night, grieving together about Hendrix, worried I overextended myself. “Come in,” I call.
James Murphy opens the door, his cast gone, his typical unreadable expression staring at me.
“Oh.” I fumble out of bed and immediately regret it. Flopped on my comforter, I held power. I looked like a casual and calm person, who isn’t freaking out having James Murphy in her room. Now, fidgeting in front of him, the tone I just used?
The power has shifted, and he knows it.
James doesn’t speak, eyes wandering around my room. None of my classmates have been here before. I assumed the first person would be a friend like Cara Moore who I’d tug through a tour. The little copper-colored trophies from my crafting competitions. The desk with a collection of books toppled sideways. A bird bath I transformed into a pillowed pedestal near the window for a Feyling I nursed back to health last month.
I wait to see how badly James is about to upturn my life. If I’ve decided anything in these past few hours, it’s best for me not to talk too much or go on the defensive.
He keeps scanning my room, a look of interest crossing his features. “I assumed you’d want to make sure I didn’t tell anyone about today,” he suddenly says.
I catch my breath. That’s exactly what I want. But how to respond so I don’t admit anything? Damn it, he’s already cornered me, and by acting considerate of all things. What’s even worse is he’s not even confirming or denying if he told someone. Next-level deception.
I go with shrugging.Carefree, act carefree. “So, did you? That is, embarrass yourself for giving a copper credit when it was your own crafting?”
He shakes his head, almost like he’s trying not to laugh, but I spot the beginning of his dimples. “I didn’t tell anyone.” I wait for thebut, the next words that involve an exception or someone else’s suspicions. His eyes hold mine as he says, “Wouldn’t want to embarrass myself.”
