Page 64 of Nobody Told Me Thrift Shops Sell Stolen Dragon Heirlooms

Quinn didn’t interrupt. She didn’t react to the name or try to repeat it, which I appreciated. Some people treated names like party tricks they were entitled to perform badly.

“She was born here,” I continued. “Her father was born here as well, but his parents came to America after the Winged War.”

Quinn’s face shifted into focus. “The war between dragons and phoenixes.”

“Yes.”

“I know the basic public-school version. Which means I know almost nothing and probably most of it is wrong.”

“The Winged War began roughly two hundred and fifty years ago,” I said. “Dragons and phoenixes had never been numerous compared to other Olden Folk, but before the war, there were communities, large houses and lineages that spanned centuries. The war destroyed most of that.

“My great-grandparents fled Japan near the end of it. They were already old by dragon standards when they left. They survived long enough to make a life here, long enough to raise my grandfather, but not long enough to give him all the language or history. They couldn’t pass on all the rites or songs or obligations that had been carried before them.”

Quinn cleared her throat. “And the relics? I read the case files, but is there more?”

“Not really. Some were scattered along the way. Some were traded for passage or lost in relocation. Some taken after death by people who decided old things without convenient heirs became available to whoever had the fastest hands and the best paperwork.”

Her mouth tightened.

“So, this isn’t only about ownership,” she said. “It’s about getting the story back in one place. Preserving history.”

My throat went tight in a way I didn’t appreciate, and I stared into my whiskey. “Yes.”

The city moved around us, indifferent and bright. Traffic slowed near an intersection, the car easing to a stop beside a bus shelter where a woman in a silver coat adjusted a child’s hat. Quinn’s fingers rested around the water bottle in her lap. Max shifted once at our feet and pressed lightly against her ankle.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

I turned my head.

She seemed to understand at once what I might object to, because she added, “Not in a pity way. In a that-shouldn’t-have-happened way.”

Most people apologized for losses like mine as if they were condolences at a wake. Soft voice, lowered eyes, a vague wish to escape the discomfort of someone else’s history. Quinn’s apology named harm without making me responsible for soothing her about it.

I took another drink. “Thank you.”

“What’s the story behind the sword? The one we’re going for tonight?”

I nodded. “It belonged to a protector of the family. Not blood but sworn to our line. He died ensuring my great-grandparents had time to escape.”

Her expression hardened. “Then we’ll charm the museum director’s pants off.”

I took another sip of my drink, mostly to avoid smiling too openly. It didn’t work as well as intended.

We merged into a faster lane, and the movement shifted Quinn slightly closer to me, the edge of her skirt brushing my leg. She adjusted it with a murmured apology.

“It’s fine,” I said.

Color rose along her cheekbones. “Thank you. For the car. And for bringing one with space for Max. And for the water. And for all the… rich-person logistics.”

“Rich-person logistics?”

“You have to admit, these have not been regular logistics.”

“No,” I said. “I suppose not.”

“I appreciate it.”

“You don’t need to thank me for necessities.”