My parents peel out of the gravel drive without even a wave. I imagine my father’s hard tone still questioning if this is really necessary. I adjust my sling. This broken arm of mine is the only reason I’ve escaped summer training with him.
“Farren will be happy to show you around,” Dr. Walsh says. In answer, Farren turns and trudges back to Hort in an exit that exudes unhappiness.
Mrs. Walsh opens her mouth, most likely to admonish her daughter.
“It’s fine,” I interrupt, grabbing the worn handle of my trunk. “Thank you both for having me. I truly appreciate it.”
“Ah, well, you’re welcome,” Mrs. Walsh says. She wears surprise like she doesn’t experience it often.
I follow Farren before she walks out of sight. Each step spells out how miserable she is. This all came quick. Needed to. However, it seems the Walshes haven’t pieced together her animosity for me. At least that means she must not bad-mouth me at home. That’s good, right?
Stop, I command myself. It doesn’t matter anymore. No psyching myself up to simply say hello. No wondering how to get on her good side. Because there’s no us and never will be. There can’t be.
Hort flaps his wings, spotting my approach.
“Calm, Hort,” I order, followed by a soft whistle so he knows I mean it.
His tail keeps swaying, which is pretty cute. He’s such a good dragon. The first I’ve trained since birth. The first to bring me home a championship. Guilt pierces me noting the outer ridge of his wing tied up in gauze. These last weeks are the longest we’ve been apart. Though as Hort tramples thepasture around him, it’s nice to see him on actual grass and dirt, surrounded by clean air. A place he can stretch those wings.
It’s beautiful here, sun-drenched and green. I’ve never been to the Walsh Sanctuary before, and I’m more than impressed. My father says these wide sweeps of coastal land need his guidance and money. That it’s only a matter of time before the Walshes concede and sell. But to house a dozen or so dragons, to maintain all this land? The Walshes aren’t struggling.
A glint of metal in the grass draws my attention and I bend to pick up one of Hort’s scales. Flipping it I find a small bit of silver, just a moment of his instinctual fear. A waste, my dad would think, since the silver doesn’t cover the entire scale. But here’s the thing. I haven’t seen Hort naturally shed a metaled scale in ages. A part of me forgot dragonsnaturallydo that.
“Oh, I guess we have to collect those…”
I jerk, astonished by Farren’s contemplative tone. “You don’t collect them?”
“I mean sometimes, but…” She shrugs. “You know.” My frown must indicate my ignorance because she keeps talking. “Most scales won’t have crafting metal anyway.”
The implication strikes deep into my heart. Because the dragons here are happy. They have no reason to protect themselves with their metal, shifting into armor constantly like my family’s dragons do.
Suddenly, Hort’s scale feels like a hot coal in my hands, like I’m one of the scalers plucking it off him as he roars in pain. “Here.” I thrust the scale out to Farren. “Keep it.”
“There’s silver in there.”
An idea sparks. “You could practice with it.” I basically grunt the reply though.God, what is wrong with me? Why can I never be normal around her?
Farren eyes the scale, looking half-confused, half-curious. “And that would be okay with you?”
I want to say of course. I know Farren could become a silver-crafter. We’re born with a genetic disposition to crafting based on one’s parents, mainly our mothers, but like any talent, that trait never dictates a person’s entire capability. Farren just needs to bond with silver dragons andthen practice crafting their metal. I’d be willing to teach her even, but my father’s outrage blazes in my mind. By handing over this scale I’m essentially allowing her to steal what he considers his property. And even though these rules keep people stuck in an unfair system, he’d argue it’s their own fault. Like not being wealthy and well connected is simply a personal problem.
“It’s okay with me.” I try to appear nonchalant, like it’s no big deal. Like I wouldn’t get hit for even suggesting this.
Farren pushes my outstretched hand against my cast. “You don’t need to look so nervous, Murphy. I know my place.”
“I—”
She changes the subject. “I’ve got to wipe Hort down. Then wash Daphine.”
I pocket Hort’s scale, hating a part of me is relieved she turned me down. “I can wash him.”
Her eyebrow arches. Damn, I love when she does that. They’re dark, unlike her blonde hair, and she can move them in such expressive ways. Without her glasses on they stand out even more.
“With one arm?” she asks.
“I’ll manage.”
Farren huffs out further skepticism as she unties Hort. Then unexpectedly, my dragon doesn’t barrel toward me. Instead, he nuzzles Farren’s neck.
