I glance upward at her. “What?”
“Some people flirt weirdly,” she repeats my own asinine words from yesterday. Only she makes them teasing, cutting through this whole situation with humor.
Maybe I don’t want to deny how good it felt to have her in my arms, to focus on something else besides Hendrix’s last moments. There has to be a reason because I answer with, “Maybe itwasto hug you.”
“Wait, what?” She wasn’t expecting I’d play along.
I stand, shrug. “Maybe I do flirt weirdly.”
By the look on her face I’ve done it. I’ve turned the tables and officially made Farren Walsh speechless. And now I can’t stay here because I just admitted I would like to flirt with her. Or worse, she’ll realize I have tried in the past and failed. I hold up the broken cast. “I need to get this fixed whileI’m in town. You can tell your dad he doesn’t have to wait for me. I’ll find my own way back to the sanctuary tonight.”
She scrambles off the ground. “Wait—”
I turn, walking backward. “I won’t say anything.” I pause. “So, you’re welcome.”
“Murphy, please. I’m not—”
“I saved your life, right? You’re welcome.” I smile. “You could even call me Savior if you want. To make it believable.”
Her face twists at the notion. “That is the opposite of believable.” When I don’t answer, she calls out, “I will not be doing that.”
The tile is cold under my feet, cold like this entire artificial silver house. Mom decorates with warm yellows, but there’s always this feeling that something is missing. I think back to the Walshes’ copper pans hanging from the kitchen walls, the wildflower wallpaper, every seat cushion a little deflated. Lived in. Inhabited instead of staged.
Anchored above our fireplace hangs one of the most famous paintings in history. It’s a depiction of the first riding. A large golden-scaled Rimback, the largest dragon species, stands four grown men tall, chest puffed out, scales spiked. And riding him sits a knight covered in armor. Historically speaking, the first crafting and riding was an iron Sprinter, with humanity advancing slowly as they bonded and practiced with different metal. But everyone loves a good story, and a golden dragon makes for a lavish embellishment, and an even more expensive work of art.
In the car Dr. Walsh said, “I’d like to believe gold-plated dragons aren’t extinct.” Funny how in this singular way Dr. Walsh and my father are similar. My dad obsessed over this painting, over the stories of golden dragons, and humanity’s failure to understand how the shed gold was tied to hatchlings’ survival and thus the species. Or maybe they were aware and wanted to kill every dragon they met, too afraid of what they couldn’t control.
When I was a kid, I was enchanted with my father’s enthusiasm, his love of dragons. He’d lift me onto his shoulders and urge me to pet the dragon’shead, the paint of the reproduction we had then thick, almost sharp under my fingertips. “We’ll find a golden dragon one day. And we’ll make him ours,” he’d say as he bounced me. And I’d laugh and cheer. Because we, us, together.
Then when I was around age twelve, Dad hunted down one of the painting’s originals and there was no more petting the golden dragon’s head. I remember because when I reached, my dad slapped me for the first time. That’s when I began to question: What exactly was I excited for? Any real golden dragon would be tied to a post, would be descaled like Hendrix until—
I turn away, cringing. We. Us. Together, torturing these creatures.
Mom rounds the corner and freezes when she sees me, a moment of fright flashing across her face. “James, what are you doing here?”
“Dr. Walsh had a case.” I pause. “They had to put Hendrix down. He’s gone.” I almost died too, but I won’t mention that. “I had to craft.” I showcase my cast, half falling off my arm at this point.
“I’ll call Dr. Burke.”
I’m not surprised by her immediate assessment or lack of questions, but it startles me when Mom charges back into the living room moments later confirming he’ll be here in mere minutes. Like Dr. Burke sits by the phone, awaiting my mom’s calls. I almost ask how much extra money she had to promise.
“Did Dr. Walsh force you to join him? Because I’ll talk to him about your father’s cases. Make it clear you shouldn’t—”
“I volunteered.” Begged, more like.
Anguish crisscrosses over her face again. “Why would you do that?”
“Because, I want to learn from them.”
Confusion replaces the distress. My mom thinks we share the same motive for my sudden move. And we do. I just have an ulterior motive. A little thing called my dreams. She’d rather we move north to Hardsill and I never touch another dragon again. I wouldn’t be able to bear a life like that.
“This is about Revers again? You shouldn’t be nervous. Yes, they like well-rounded applicants, but I’ve talked to various recruiters. With exceptionalstudents you don’t even need to test your dragon training or medical knowledge. Just your crafting will be good enough.”
“I want to test in all areas.”
Mom crosses her arms. “I still don’t understand why. So much work when you basically already have a spot.”
“Keeping my options open.” It’s such a routine lie it’s starting to sound sensible. The truth? A scholarship would be easy to snag if I wanted to join the Revers racing team. The one academic scholarship, however, is only handed out to the most well-balanced candidate, who succeeds inallfour areas. And I’ll need that scholarship if I’m to abandon the path my father has set out for me and be a dragon veterinarian instead of a professional rider. To make sure when he does discover my intentions, I’ll be independent enough to not lose everything.
