“With you?” Mrs. Moore asks, all that worry Dr. Walsh helped alleviate flooding back. To Mrs. Moore I’m nothing more than one of my father’s spies. Of course that’s how they see me. That’s what I’ve been before. In fact, Dad used to order me to sneak into the stalls to examine the dragons before the auction.
“He’s interning with us for the summer,” Dr. Walsh supplies, same calming voice. And there’s something else too, a kind of smiley reassurance.
Mrs. Moore dials her voice down to a whisper. “I can’t document this visit. I need today to go well. And right now, it’s the opposite of well.”
“Understood.”
They both look at me. “I understand,” I stutter. “Or I mean, understood.”
Neither Moore is convinced, but their trust in the Walshes must extend far enough to override my reputation, because we enter the stalls and trudge toward the back without another word.
“What are we looking at?” Dr. Walsh asks as we pass Sprinter after Sprinter.
The smell of hay and dragon slams into my nose. Instead of cages or carved-out sleeping spaces, these iron-coated stalls are holding pens intended for a few hours’ use before the dragons are paraded and flown in front of buyers.
Maureen leans in like she’s holding a secret. “I’ve got a Murphy silver Sprinter limping.”
Oh, a Murphy Sprinter. So, my dad is here. I grip my arm. I suddenly wish I’d insisted Dr. Burke recast after all.
Farren bumps past me. “Sorry James. I don’t think you’ll have a chance to visit your dad. We’ve got work to do,” she says with contempt. Reassurance wrapped in what sounds like an insult. She’s too good at this. Knowing exactly what I need and yet still playing the part. Cara eyes us warily.
The five of us sneak into the farthest back stall before anyone can suspect the auction’s biggest cash cow might be sick or injured. The female Sprinter raises her head as we approach, already muzzled in brown leather. It’s Elin, a shy two-year-old. Of course my father is selling her. She doesn’t have the racing drive and doesn’t shed well. If this was any other summer, I’d be expected to exaggerate her flying ability. But instead I get to take care of her. Something in my chest unwinds at the notion.
Her scales shine in a lush green, but her front foot, hoisted in a limp, is covered in shining silver. As much as it’s a benefit that dragons can use their metal to protect themselves, it’s like a luminous mirror signaling that something is wrong and thus not worth whatever hefty price my father demands. My brain automatically classifies her value. Ten thousand sterlings. With this injury it could be halved to five thousand.
When Dr. Walsh and Farren crouch to the ground by her foot, I follow suit.
“Let’s see,” Dr. Walsh says. “Ah, yes.” He turns to Farren. “What do you think?”
“It looks like a few ingrown scales,” Farren diagnoses. “A cluster of three, right on the joint.”
“Oh, thank god,” Maureen sighs.
A one-three-two. Somehow even over the phone Dr. Walsh knew it was a mere one. “We just need to put her under for ten minutes and we can fix it right up.”
Mrs. Moore jerks. “I can’t have her put under.”
Dr. Walsh pauses, sizes me up. I straighten my spine not knowing whathe may say next, but trying to appear as un-Murphy-like as possible. “We could have James craft it fixed. I could talk him through it.”
“Yes! That would be preferred. You know the clients here. They, well…” They are elitists who would always prefer a silver-crafter over a copper.
“Wait no, Farren should do it. She’s who’strained,” Cara objects.
That’s my cue. One classist prick coming up. “She’s a copper,” I say, flat and monotone. I know it’s convincing by Farren’s face, crestfallen.I’m pretending, I want to yell. Please believe me.
I don’t move.
Cara frowns again, harder if possible. “I’d take training over crafting ability any day. Why are you interning with the Walshes if it’s all about crafting?”
I didn’t really know Cara before she became a silver-crafter, and when she first entered silver-crafting classes she mingled without drawing much attention to herself like all newly forged silver-crafters. Keep your head down until the registration settles and the other dozen silver-crafting families of Forsen accept you. But two months later I witnessed her laying into Colm Ditters about how he should watch how he talks to her. It was one of the funniest things I’ve ever seen. This girl, barely five feet, made Colm at six-three wither. And now she’s turned that withering focus on to me.
“Cara, we don’t have the time,” her mom admonishes.
“I’ll guide him through the crafting, Maureen. We’ll get it done.” Dr. Walsh turns. “And Farren can run any other physicals while we work.”
“Perfect,” Mrs. Moore sighs. “Cara, show her.”
Farren’s the distraction then. She’ll perform the physicals and I’ll pretend to do this procedure as Dr. Walsh does the real work.
