“I just didn’t want to get my sweater dirty,” I explain. Only as the words leave my mouth do I realize how dumb that sounds. It’s my new favorite sweater, the one I lent to Farren, but they don’t need to know how much I treasure it now.
“Well, grab your sweater. We have a one-three-two at the auction house.” Farren tilts her head before strutting for the barn door.
A one-three-two. So a relatively minor injury that the Walshes have rated as the lowest concern. And a silver dragon. “I’m invited?” I call.
“What do you thinkwemeans, Murphy?”
This is it. The opportunity to watch Dr. Walsh and Farren work again, to finally use all my studying.
Jeffrey beams and nods to take my shovel. “Go.”
I don’t waste another second. I dash after Farren, pulling on my sweater as I do.
When I catch up, she gives me a look of recognition. “Oh, thefavoritesweater. I still think it looks better on me.”
I huff out a laugh, happy to slip into teasing her. “Couldn’t agree more. You can have it even.”
Her eyes light up and her eyebrows raise a fraction. “Yeah?”
I almost pull off the sweater and hand it to her right then. “If you admit I look better shirtless,” I continue.
Those brown eyes narrow. “That’s never going to happen, Murphy.” Her cheeks have gone pink though. “Don’t go thinking this invitation is me being nice by the way.”
“Sure. Sure.” I let myself smile while I still can, before I have to put on the act.
“I’m serious.” She glances my way again and shakes her head a little at what she finds. “Get those dimples under control.”
My pace slows realizing just how right she is, and my blood ices remembering where we are headed—the auction house, one of my least favorite places.
We jostle up to the back of the auction house an hour later. I can’t say the large fortress of dragon stalls and an amphitheater-like stage is a welcoming venue.
My father rents out most of his dragons, but he also sells quite a few. In fact, he might be here today, standing on the top rows scrutinizing how the people of Forsen bid and then collecting pouches of sterlings after.
He brought me along to ride any dragon for sale, especially after I claimed championship status. After demonstrations I’d answer eager questions from buyers. “Feel like the next champion, son?” so many would quip with a hopeful laugh. Calling me son like it would earn goodwill with my father. When not flying or poorly conversing, I’d sit quiet by his side.
This is Farren’s and my first true test. Our charade begins here. Farren’s parents are one thing, the general public and bulk of the dragon community another.
I hope I won’t be mingling with any of the silver families and common auction patrons of Forsen though. In fact, I hope to remain invisible. My cast is long gone and without it my father might call me back home to restart training—including descaling—as if nothing happened.
Mrs. Moore, head auctioneer, runs to the truck before Farren can peel her thigh away from mine. The break of contact is like releasing a held breath. It’s been a quiet ride as I try to smother my excitement and find the old James Murphy from three weeks ago who could flip on the mask of apathy like a switch.
“Patrick, thank god you are here. I’m sorry for the short notice,” Mrs. Moore calls, a note of desperation in her voice.
Dr. Walsh glides out of the car, exuding calm. “Maureen, it’s going to be all right. Farren and I are here.”
Farren waves and lifts the physical kit, a small worn trunk she won’t let me carry for her. I hang back, unsure. Farren ignores me as if we truly hate one another. I never thought myself a good actor, but together we might just be able to pull this off. And the Moore family is one we have to fool.
They’re powerhouses, climbing from copper-crafters to bronze-crafters within a year and then registering as silver-crafters just months before Maureen was bestowed the promotion of a lifetime—head auctioneer. No woman has run the auction house in the history of Forsen. My father was unimpressed with the choice, but when Mom implied he was being misogynistic he said he “won’t dignify that accusation with an answer.”
The Moores also have dark brown skin. Mom wouldn’t dare insinuate it wasn’t only misogyny that caused his dislike. I’m not brave enough either. Not only because of my father’s potential reaction, but because ignorance seems like the only thing that fastens my family together.
Cara Moore appears beside her mother, braids tied back and wariness in her eyes. Farren halts beside me, stiffening. Cara and Farren used to be friends. As far as I know, they don’t talk much anymore. I thought it wasbecause Cara advanced in metal-crafting without her, but now I know better. Mr. Moore is one of the new silver-crafting teachers at school and in charge of metal registration for the students since he bonded with a dragon and advanced so quickly. He’s brilliant. So, it makes sense why Farren suddenly had to distance herself. The Moores are ambitious, hardworking, and most of all—perceptive.
Cara’s focus whips to me and her frown deepens from hurt to concern. “James Murphy? What are you doing here?” she asks.
“He’s with us.” Dr. Walsh claims me.
Cara whirls toward Farren. Maybe I was wrong, maybe they’re still good friends and she’s going to see right through our charade. I take a breath. Great. This means I’m going to have to be mean to Farren. I need to glue on my mask and make sure it sticks today.
