When I hand over the clothes, she frowns down at the green fabric. “You washed my dress?”
“Yes.”
She glances around the loft. “Like hand-washed my dress?”
“Yes.”
She beams and I almost stumble back at how bright her smile is. “Wow, thank you.” She sets the clothes and books down on the table like she’s settling in. My confusion intensifies.
“What did you think of yesterday?” she asks. “Good enough? I think I fooled my mom, but both my parents are a little too perceptive.” She paces. “I’ve never been this angsty. Slamming that door felt strange, but also a little cathartic.” She finally stops and looks at me. “Do you slam doors in your house?”
“Yes, though most of the time it’s not me doing the slamming,” I answer, not processing the beginning of her speech. She’s asking my opinion on her… acting? “That was a performance?” I ask.
She frowns, adjusts her glasses. “What do you mean?” I don’t know whatmy face conveys, but it must tell her enough because her dark eyebrows rise in surprise. “I was that good? You think I hate you too?”
Yes. Too good.“You did say you wouldn’t even have to pretend yesterday morning,” I rationalize.
“That was a joke.”
“A joke,” I repeat.
She bites her lip. “Obviously, a bad joke.”
“So, youdon’thate me and you’re here to—?” I wait.
Farren motions to the books. “Enact the first part of our deal. I was going to ask your help to collect scales with me and while we do that, I can talk you through some of my father’s procedures.” She taps one of the books and I realize it’s a journal, loose papers stuffed into the binding. I could probably learn more from that journal than any textbook I’ve ever read. Learn more from her than any class.
My mood suddenly matches the sunshine pouring into the loft. “Okay.”
“Okay.” She brightens as she grabs her books. “Time to give you the tour, properly this time.”
Jeffrey and Shelly were right. Farren talks a mile a minute when it comes to dragons. I walk beside her, hanging on every word. I notice she likes when I ask questions, so I do, even if I had already learned the answers the hard way or stolen a small opportunity to ask Dr. Walsh or Jeffrey these past weeks. I don’t dare with any “I know,” because we are starting over.
Joy blooms in my chest with each passing minute. We’re having a normal conversation and more importantly Farren is acting like herself. Knowing her secrets has cast aside that facade she’s been wearing for the last year.
“The seven Skidders are elusive, but once you find one…” She smiles, nodding ahead. “You’ll find them all.”
I follow her eyes through the lush knee-high grass. Feet away a lump of green scales comes into view, then a head rises to peer at us. Farren touches my shoulder, pointing out the six others. All crouched with crocodile eyes watching us from the grass.
Skidders are Sprinter-sized wyverns. I know this and yet when the creature closest rises up on his winged front feet the lurching scuttle is unsettling, more animalistic than a four-legged dragon.
“Just keep calm. No loud noises. Our Skidders don’t like men.”
“Great. So, you brought me out here to kill me.”
Farren drops her books and steps in front of me. “If I was going to kill you, I’d have let Nity do it. Less of a mess.”
As the nearest wyvern lumbers closer, he sniffs Farren’s outstretched hand. He seems content before turning his snout to me, head tilted in inspection. A thick scar runs over a missing eye.
“This one’s Abe. His left eye is gone so he’s a little more defensive.” Farren pats his neck. “Likes to rely on his nose and that means getting close.” She turns to me. “Not the smartest tactic if we were trying to harm him.”
I know these Skidders were descaled, but up close? The full-body scarring makes my throat tight. The poachers who did this must have been only iron-crafters because they didn’t just pull the sheath of coated tin off the scale, which would be painful enough. They pulled the entire scale off. Every single scale. When that’s done to a dragon, the scales don’t regrow in even, healthy layers.
Each Skidder comes forward, following Abe’s lead. While all possess different colors, they share the same stout, jutting, crooked scales. We are soon surrounded.
Farren brushes the head of a teal Skidder to her right. “This is Deb. And my first big case with my dad.” She plops down in the grass and flips through the journal until she lands on an enlarged diagram of a spiked wyvern tail.
“The poachers cut the tip of all their tails so as not to get stung which—” She looks at me still standing. “Come on. Sit.”
