Page 91 of Nobody Told Me Thrift Shops Sell Stolen Dragon Heirlooms

The dance changed. Guests clapped through a sequence that required everyone to turn outward, then back in. Quinn missed the timing, laughed, and corrected herself without embarrassment. I followed properly, of course.

“Show off,” she said.

“I’m doing the steps.”

“Are you bad at anything?”

“You invited me to dance. I’m dancing.”

“I invited you to be charmingly bad at it.”

I smiled at her. “You failed to specify those terms.”

She laughed again, and the sound moved through me more clearly than the music.

Then the caller gestured to Max. “Bring in the honorary guest.”

Quinn froze. Max stood as if summoned by destiny.

“He appears willing,” I said.

“He can’t line dance. That’s not on the list of commands he knows.”

“Let’s see.” I stepped toward Max and offered my hand, palm down.

Max sniffed once, then gave me his paw.

Everyone applauded.

Quinn covered her mouth, eyes bright. “Oh my god.”

I took the dog’s paw very carefully and stepped once to the side. Max followed with a small, tidy movement, his tail giving one restrained wag. It wasn’t dancing in any technical sense. It was barely movement. But the applause grew, and Max, dignified creature that he was, accepted it all.

I looked up and saw the pure delight on Quinn’s face.

She was laughing at me and Max, one hand pressed to her stomach, the other reaching out to steady herself against a chair. The sight of it stole whatever small defense I’d built around the moment.

I wanted, abruptly and with great inconvenience, to make her laugh like that again.

Max released my hand when I told him, “Enough,” in a tone he apparently respected, then sat as the applause faded.

“He performed admirably,” I said.

She laughed again, her eyes bright. I found myself watching too closely. The lively dance ended with more laughter than skill, and people drifted back to their tables, still smiling. I should’ve used the break to retrieve my composure. Instead, I found myself standing next to Quinn at the edge of the floor, aware of my pulse, her nearness, and the absurd fact that I’d enjoyed the last several minutes more than any formal event in recent memory.

Enjoyed.

The word didn’t become less strange through repetition.

The quartet began again.

At first, I didn’t place the melody. Only the first few notes, slow and lilting, threaded through the room. Conversation softened. Couples adjusted naturally, hands finding shoulders and waists. The music drew the energy inward.

Then the violin carried higher, and a memory crashed over me.

My mother’s parlor in the winter. My grandfather’s old phonograph, carefully maintained long after parts became difficult to find. My mother humming the melody while teaching me the basic frame of a dance. I had been twelve and furious about a pack dinner where a girl had asked if my dragon horns interfered with my hearing. My mother had laughed so hard she had to sit down, but she taught me the steps because she refused to let someone else’s ignorance teach me shame.

“Rafe?”