“Just like that?”
He glares, or maybe that’s how he squints, but something tightens around his eyes. “Why does it seem like you expect me to blackmail you?”
Because other people would. I would if I could. If I could figure out what he wanted, I’d use it against him. Make sure he’d keep this secret because I held some leverage of my own.
When I don’t say anything, he does glare. I can tell the difference now. This second look is brutally cold. “You think that little of me, huh?”
Yes. Maybe. I’m not sure.I stay silent.
He turns, only stopping before the door, alongside my desk. “I got these for you,” he says. He places something small and clear on the tabletop. The sound of glass pings against wood.
Only when he leaves, the door clicked shut, do I rush to discover what he’s left. On the desk lie various rounded pieces of glass, all different thicknesses. He didn’t know my prescription so James Murphy gifted me an entire array of lenses in order to fix the glasses he broke.
I clutch one of the lenses in my hands, careful not to crush it. It feels like our truce, fragile, but also…
I sprint out of my room, spotting James halfway down the stairs. “Thank you,” I whisper-yell as I bend over the banister. He stops, craning his head to look up at me. His expression remains unreadable. I hold up the lens I grabbed. “Thank you for this.”
James shuffles on the stairs and finally I see emotions tumble across his features. A splash of surprise. A twinge of uncertainty. Then resolve. “Whatever you think of me, I said I wouldn’t tell. And I won’t.”
“Then I believe you.”
He nods once before descending the stairs and out of the house.
I stay standing there. I don’t think I’ve ever meant my thankfulness more in my life. And of all people, my gratitude is for James Murphy.
My trust as well. Though I’ve yet to see how that will fare. But he’s not the monster I thought had come to ruin my life. For if he’s willing to fix what he broke, maybe he won’t try to shatter my whole existence—at least not intentionally.
CHAPTER TWELVEWHEN IT RETURNS
FARREN
For the next two weeks, Murphy and I coexist much like we used to in school and on every crafting field we shared—in quiet avoidance. Which basically boils down to him ignoring me. Which I’m finding more and more infuriating. For as much as I think his presence here is a mistake, that I must tread carefully wherever he is in case he gets even more observant, it’s agony working alongside someone who won’t speak. And the thing is I’ve dreamed of this—having one summer where I’m not completely alone with only my parents, Jeffrey and Shelly, and the dragons to talk to.
At school I don’t have friends—only acquaintances. I’ve never been bullied, but there’s this feeling, the overwhelming question after every sentence. That wasn’t the right thing to say. I shouldn’t have provided that unprompted dragon fact. Or asked the teacher to clarify the homework when everyone else was hoping they’d forget to assign it to us altogether. I’m all too accustomed to what I call the grimace, the implied “Stop talking, Farren.” And then the silence and awkwardness I created. I’ve stalled many a conversation. And unlike my A-plus average, I’m the opposite of proud.
No, I haven’t been bullied per se, but in the social standing of high schoolI’m a straight-F student. I used to have Cara Moore. Cara, who wants to be the best crafter in the world. Who asked me to help her bond with her copper Sprinter, then bronze, so she could keep improving her metal-crafting. So we both could. Cara, whose father got promoted to head silver-crafting teacher, who manages metal registration at school. Cara, who I had to cut out of my life when Nity entered it.
I started pretending, fading in the background to be anonymous. It was easier than I would care to admit. I just stopped raising my hand, stopped speaking out, stopped taking up space, without letting my grades slip. After multiple summers of missed social gatherings and friendships strengthened without me, I think I’ve gotten too good at disappearing though.
Good god, too many months of my isolation and I’m actually lamenting the fact that James Murphy doesn’t want to be my friend. What’s worse is I’m fully responsible since I was the one declaring I hate him, instructing him to not talk to me. And I thought I had hit rock bottom before.
In the first break in my dad’s cases, on a cloudy afternoon, I rush over to Jeffrey and Shelly’s new home. At least I have them, even if they are both ten years older than me.
They bought the Flynn residence, our next-door neighbors even at half a mile farther inland. The home is a shabby old farmhouse Jeffrey has somehow cleaned up to be not only habitable, but cute. Who knew the transformative powers of blue shutters?
“Is that my favorite Walsh girl?” Shelly calls from somewhere in the depths of narrow hallways after I knock.
Jeffrey barrels toward me, hat firmly in place even indoors. “Well, welcome. Took you long enough. We were beginning to think you’d forgotten about us.”
“Blame the parents. They said something ridiculous about you both needing to settle in and unpack.”
“Too considerate for their own good.” Jeffrey smiles. “I just made Shelly tea. This way.”
I weave through old stone-built walls until we open into a small kitchen and breakfast nook. The whole place oozes charm. It’s perfect for them.
“Itismy favorite Walsh girl.” Shelly throws open her arms from under a bundled blanket. One look at her and my heart stops. She’s even skinnier than two weeks ago. Cheeks gaunt. Strawberry-red hair she spent years growing out again dull. I whip my attention back to Jeffrey. Last night, we were together, looking after Nity, and he lied and said she was doing better. But then again, Jeffrey doesn’t always tell me the truth when it relates to Shelly. Should have suspected. I squeeze the tube in my pocket. I should have come sooner.
I sink into her embrace. Shelly has felt like an older sister since the moment she skipped onto the sanctuary thirteen years ago. She’d lost her parents and moved up the road with her grandmother, Mrs. Price, when I was three. But Mrs. Price was already seventy-four by then and she couldn’t stop little Shelly from wandering, or even more scandalous—riding dragons.