I smile. “So many deals with you.”
He chuckles. “Okay then, apromise. If my father is coming, if he presses charges, we have to be ready for him. But we do that together?”
“Together,” I agree, feeling warm just uttering the word, changing us from two into one. I tighten my grip around him. I’ve made my decision. I’m not letting him go so easily.
But it’s not just us. Nity and the babies have to be ready. For that we need a plan, a way to escape if anyone comes searching the sanctuary. James and I stare at one another, both processing at the same time. I know because when we speak, we utter identical words.
“We need to teach the hatchlings to fly.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREEWHEN YOU GIVE FLYING LESSONS
JAMES
Before we teach them to fly, we need to be watchful and pick our timing. A Rimback and three newborns can’t be seen in the skies together. And even more importantly, we need to understand my father’s next move. Will he spread rumors of Farren’s advancement? Will he try to tarnish Dr. Walsh’s business with lies?
Or will he stay quiet?
In order to make sure, Dr. Walsh systematically checks in on each of his clients and takes Farren and me with him. He offers a free checkup, but our true intentions are to witness how we’re received, make sure rumors haven’t spread or quell those that have. And while we do that, Mrs. Walsh soars out on her Sprinter each day to find us a good deserted island for hatchling flying lessons.
Two days into our mission, it’s clear where my father has drawn the line and who he felt needed to hear the lie of Walshes stealing silver. Every client who owns a bronze or silver dragon declines a free checkup. Some do it subtly while others flat out admit they won’t need anyone with the last name Walsh looking at their dragons from here on out.
Dr. Walsh hangs up the phone in the same way no matter the verdict—aclick of the receiver. “Mark the Brundy family as a no,” he’ll announce into the holding-your-breath quiet. Farren will scratch out the note and then we all focus back as he spins the dial to hear his next answer. A myriad of confused yeses, a few cryptic nos.
“Call the Ditters next,” I suggest after the fourth speculated rejection.
“He only rents his dragons. He’s not an official client,” Farren objects.
“But he wishes he was. If he doesn’t know, he’ll take you up on your offer. If he does, he’ll be belligerent. The Ditters have been trying to become silver-crafters for generations. They want the very best.” I tap at the phone. “Mr. Ditters next.”
Dr. Walsh looks impressed and nods his approval. I hold my breath as Mr. Ditters answers. The same introductory phrases and offer float breezily through the phone. A pause settles over the line. Then disgust mars Mr. Ditters’s voice. “I know what you and your family are, Mr. Walsh—silver-stealing scum. I don’t know why the Murphys aren’t pressing charges, but if you come to my home that will be a different story.” The line dies. But the answer seems to glow to life around us. My father has voiced his assumptions to every bronze-and silver-crafter he’s connected with, which is all of them. But he’s not pressing charges.
Hours later, the tally is in. The Walshes have lost seven clients, which doesn’t sound like many until Mrs. Walsh, pacing through the room, slumps in the chair with her own reports. “Sixty-seven percent of our revenue lost,” she tells us. “If last year’s receipts are anything to go off of. But we always knew it was going to be bad. Murphy’s tracks are thirty percent of our business. And Hort’s recovery here was financing us until the end of the year.”
Thirty percent? Until the end of the year?No wonder my father presumed he could buy out the sanctuary eventually. I almost curse. Farren does.
Dr. Walsh pats the table. “We still have forty-seven clients to take care of, twenty-six who agreed and are eager for a checkup. Let’s go.”
Farren and I are supposed to complete each dragon’s physical as Dr. Walsh asks the real questions to know exactly what rumors have been spread. On the third farm, where three iron-plated Sprinters herd and protect the vastfields of sheep from other dragons, the owner, an elderly lady with crisp white hair, makes a joke about Dr. Walsh training up his replacements.
“Farren might not want to take over. A lot can change in college,” Dr. Walsh answers with sincerity before stepping away with the kind Mrs. Hattish.
“You wouldn’t take over the sanctuary?” I ask Farren as soon as her dad’s out of earshot. I had assumed, unlike me, she wanted the family business. That we shared the dream to be dragon veterinarians. But maybe that was just me projecting. Maybe Farren wants something else. Suddenly, this feels bigger than it should. Like if I don’t know this one piece of her, I don’t know anything.
She turns to me, blonde hair falling in front of her face as she feels the Sprinter’s belly. I’m at the front end, finished checking teeth and his throat. The Sprinter takes that moment to nuzzle my ear, hot saliva dripping down my face.
Farren laughs. “Who wouldn’t look forward to this?”
I wipe the slobber off my face as gracefully as I can. “I can’t tell if you’re being sarcastic.”
Her hands glide along the back legs, checking his joints. “I do want this.” Her brown eyes hook into mine. “You know, there used to be only one person in the way of that dream.”
Me. Competing for the scholarship.Damn it. With everything that had changed between us, I’d quite literally forgotten our rivalry. But who could blame me? Farren Walsh kisses me now. Even with my father’s threats a lingering fear, life has been joyous with that one new development.
“What kind of vile jerk would get in the way of your dreams?” I balk.
“You probably haven’t heard of him. But he’s as awful as you’re imagining,” she teases.
“Ouch, Walsh. I have a good imagination.” A lie. I couldn’t have even imagined joking with her like this weeks ago.
