Page 12 of Nobody Told Me Thrift Shops Sell Stolen Dragon Heirlooms

They always were. That was the problem and the gift.

I turned the phone so they could see Max. They spent most of the next ten minutes gushing over him, before talking about the potential openings at the law firm at the end of the summer and whether Moira was appropriately impressed with me.

After we hung up, Max rested his head on my knee again, and the apartment went quiet.

“I just need one shot,” I told him. “One real one.”

Max raised his head and stared into my eyes. It was always so disconcerting to be regarded so seriously by a dog. You started to understand why ancient people thought animals knew things.

When I stopped talking, he waited a beat to confirm I was finished, then climbed more fully into my lap. There was nothing elegant about it. He was seventy pounds of lean muscle and devotion, and when he committed to closeness, the laws of physics had to make room.

“Oof,” I said, laughing despite myself. “Subtle.”

He ignored my tone and nudged at my throat. At first I thought he wanted my mug, which would have been a gross overreach even for him. Then he nudged again, his nose brushing the bare skin just above my collarbone.

I touched my neck. “Oh.”

The necklace clasp had broken that morning while I’d been getting dressed. My usual necklace—a thin silver chain with a hammered charm that looked faintly occult but was still business appropriate—was still sitting on my bathroom counter beside my face cream and the Q-tip box I kept saying I’d replace with something more eco-conscious the second my life became less chaotic.

“You miss my necklace?” I asked him.

Max gave a short, precise nudge with his nose against my chest.

I laughed properly then, head tipping back against the couch. “That’s adorable and also weirdly judgmental.”

He gave me the look.

“I know,” I acknowledged. “Matching sets matter.”

My necklace was not, in any objective way, a match to his collar. His collar was sturdy black leather with a brass plate and hardware that could survive a natural disaster. My necklace was delicate and a little sentimental and had cost twenty-six dollars at a street fair in Brooklyn four summers ago. But Max had, over time, developed strong feelings about continuity, ceremony, and what I could only describe as team branding.

I cupped his face and kissed the top of his head. “All right, soldier. This weekend, we’ll go thrifting and find me something that works. Then everyone will know we’re a coordinated unit.”

His ears lifted, and he settled more heavily against me, apparently satisfied that the issue had been formally addressed.

I rested my cheek lightly against his head and smiled into the relative quiet of my apartment. Outside, a siren wailed in the distance. Upstairs, someone dropped something heavy, then swore with feeling. But none of it bothered me.

“Tomorrow,” I told him, “I’m going back in there, and I’m going to dazzle.”

3

RAFE

ONE STEP DOWN A VERY LONG ROAD

I stood outside my mother’s parlor long enough for one of the maids to come around the corner and nearly collide with me.

She caught herself with admirable grace, keeping the silver tray steady. Tea service for two, laid out with the sort of precision my mother still appreciated even on days when time had gone loose around her.

“Mr. Virelli,” she said.

“Maria. Here, let me take that.”

Her hands tightened almost imperceptibly around the handles. “It’s all right, sir. I have it.”

“It’s for my mother,” I said, “I’ll take it.”

Maria gave a tiny nod and surrendered the silver. “I’ll get the door.”