Page 119 of Nobody Told Me Thrift Shops Sell Stolen Dragon Heirlooms

By Saturday afternoon, I had officially become the sort of person who had weekend plans involving private antiquities auctions, which was alarming because my usual weekend plans involved laundry, grocery math, and trying to convince Max that the vacuum wasn’t a hostile aircraft.

Grand Thrift Oughta had clearly adjusted to this development faster than I had.

Octavia had three garment bags waiting when we arrived, all hanging from the brass rack beside the counter, my name scrawled on a Post-It.

I stopped just inside the shop, Max at my side, Rafe behind me, and stared.

“Octavia,” I said.

From the back, she called, “Don’t use that tone with me. I am an artist.”

“You’re hoarding formal wear now.”

“I prefer calling it curating opportunity.”

“You have three garment bags labeled Quinn.”

“Four, technically. One is labeled Emergency Quinn.”

Rafe’s gaze moved to me.

I closed my eyes. “Please don’t ask.”

“I wasn’t planning to.”

I snorted. “You were thinking loudly.”

That got me the smallest curve of his mouth, which I had, unfortunately, begun to track like weather.

A week ago, I had thought Rafe Virelli’s face had two settings: displeased, and about to be displeased. Now I knew better. There was the narrow-eyed look he got when someone was wasting his time. The slight softening when Max leaned against his leg. The almost-smile he tried to pretend was only a mouth malfunction. The full smile I had only seen a handful of times and was in no way collecting like cards.

I was productive and fulfilled, a woman on a professional upswing.

I had finished Helena Wallace’s memo early, a feat so satisfying I had considered printing the timestamp and framing it beside my law degree someday. The Friday meeting with Georgiana Sorel had gone better than any of us had dared to admit out loud. The sword wasn’t home yet, but the deal had shape now and an actual deadline.

And tomorrow night, I was attending a private auction with a dragon client who had fixed my building door, danced with my dog, and texted like plausible deniability was his native language.

My stomach had been unsettled all morning for reasons I refused to call anticipation.

Octavia emerged from behind a rack of velvet jackets wearing a black tunic, giant round glasses, and a measuring tape draped around her neck like a royal sash.

Her face lit when she saw Max. “There’s my grandpuppy.”

She pulled a paper twist of treats from her tunic pocket. Max sat before she asked, because he understood where standards ended and bribery began.

Only after feeding him did she look at me. “And there’s my auction girl.”

“I am not your auction girl.”

She looked past me. “Mr. Vineyard.”

“Octavia,” Rafe said with a polite incline of his head.

“He remembers.” Octavia clapped once. “Dressing room. Now. I have found options.”

“Found where?” I asked.

“In the world, Quinn. Keep up.”