Page 227 of Nobody Told Me Thrift Shops Sell Stolen Dragon Heirlooms

“Yes, but tonight they say it in front of rich people. That makes it shinier.”

I laughed, kissed her cheek, and then nearly got dragged out the door by Max, who had decided that while puppy mentorship mattered, Rafe Virelli mattered more.

The event was being held at the Virelli estate, in the east gallery that looked out over the lower gardens and a wide stone terrace built for dragon landings. In the official invitation, the evening had been described as a private reception celebrating the recovery of displaced Olden Folk cultural objects and announcing the Payton & Wallace Cultural Restitution Initiative.

Moira had described it as “a tasteful victory lap with canapés.”

Octavia had called it “the sort of event where earrings should be visible from across the room but not screaming at you.”

Rafe had called it “small.”

Eighty people had been invited.

“Small,” I said as the car turned through the estate gates and I saw the line of vehicles ahead of us. “Interesting word.”

Rafe glanced over from the driver’s seat, one hand resting on the wheel, the other reaching automatically for mine at the red-lit checkpoint. “It’s small compared to what my father wanted.”

“What did your father want?”

“Two hundred guests, press access, and a string quartet.”

“This is why I like your mother.”

“My mother wanted a harpist. She said Max might enjoy it.”

Max, in the back seat, sat up straighter, prepared for cultural enrichment.

“I can’t believe you denied him harp music.”

“I’m cruel that way.”

I squeezed his hand. “I’m beginning to see that.”

Rafe brought my hand to his mouth and kissed my knuckles. The gesture still did something humiliating to my internal organs, no matter how many times he’d done it.

He had dressed in a dark suit and no tie again, which felt personal at this point. When he opened my door, his eyes moved over me, and for all his restraint, for all the polished calm that made people stand a little straighter around him, his face softened in a way that belonged only to me.

“Hello,” he said.

I stepped out. “Hi.”

“You look beautiful.”

“Thank you. I dressed to suggest professional competence and emotional availability to one specific dragon.”

“You succeeded.”

“Excellent. I do like measurable outcomes.”

Max pushed between us, because romance was acceptable but shouldn’t interfere with his greeting schedule. Rafe bent and placed one hand on his head, careful as always, as if Max’s dignity were something real enough to touch.

“And you,” Rafe said. “Distinguished.”

Max accepted the praise.

The estate glowed. That was the only word for it. Not in a Dimitris way, all money and performance and flame used like punctuation. This was warmth. Candlelight in tall glass. Flowers from the estate gardens arranged by someone who understood beauty. Music low enough not to compete with conversation. Staff moving with practiced ease. People in tailored clothes speaking softly around the recovered relics displayed in secure cases at the far end of the gallery.

The necklace. The sword. The mirror. The comb. The incense burner.