Page 82 of Nobody Told Me Thrift Shops Sell Stolen Dragon Heirlooms

“No, I—” Dr. Sorel glanced at me, at Rafe, then back at her wife. “That was unkind.”

“Yes, it was.”

“I’m sorry,” she said again, quieter.

Miriam took her wife’s hand and intertwined their fingers.

I looked down at Max because private love, especially when it was working hard in public, felt like something I shouldn’t stare at directly. Max glanced up at me as if to say humans were complicated and often required supervision.

He wasn’t wrong.

Dr. Sorel turned back to us. Her composure returned, but it was different now. Less armored. “Mr. Virelli. Ms. Bradley. You have five minutes.”

Miriam’s mouth curved. “Ten.”

“Seven.”

Rafe’s gaze moved to me. I widened my eyes slightly because, frankly, I could not believe he’d infected the Sorel marriage with his negotiation style from across the room.

Miriam said, “Eight.”

Dr. Sorel sighed. “Eight.”

Max made a soft sound.

“I know,” I told him. “It’s spreading.”

Dr. Sorel looked at me.

“My apologies,” I said. “Private legal commentary between Max and I.”

Dr. Sorel gestured toward an alcove near the photo display, partially screened by tall plants and a sculpture I didn’t quite understand. The donor in the navy tuxedo began to follow, then thought better of it when Dr. Sorel turned her head.

He vanished with impressive speed.

We moved into the alcove. Miriam stayed beside Georgiana, their hands still linked. Rafe stood across from them, posture straight, face composed. Max settled at my side, and I stood between the legal claimant and the wife who had given us this opening, feeling very much like an intern in a designer thrift dress about to juggle antique trauma, museum politics, and one dragon’s self-restraint.

Fantastic.

No pressure at all.

Dr. Sorel began before anyone else could. “I understand the emotional nature of Mr. Virelli’s claim. I do. But the sword has been part of our museum’s permanent collection for decades. It is insured, incorporated into educational programming, and displayed as part of a broader exhibit on post-war Olden Folk migration.”

Rafe’s eyes sharpened. “Post-war migration is a bloodless phrase for what happened.”

“Yes,” I murmured. “It is.”

He caught my eye, and I didn’t look away. I worried he might hate the interruption, but then he inclined his head by the smallest degree.

Trust, again.

I turned back to Dr. Sorel. “And I don’t think anyone here wants to pretend the museum’s public work doesn’t matter. It does. I saw the photos of the school groups near the entrance. I read the exhibit description online. You’re not keeping the sword in a basement.”

“No,” Dr. Sorel said. “We’re not.”

“But there’s a difference between preserving history and becoming the final stop for something that was separated from a family during catastrophe.”

Her expression didn’t change much, but her attention settled more firmly on me.