Chapter Twenty-Seven. When You Have to Save a Boy … Again #2
“What’s going on here?” Dr. Burke asks from across the room as he takes in the scene. Colm rolls to his side, groaning. “James?” Dr. Burke cuts toward me. “Farren?”
“Sorry, Dr. Burke. He’s going to need more tea.
He fell,” is all James gives. With a flap of the medical tent he’s gone.
I refuse to stay and try to explain in his absence, especially as Dr. Burke watches me, like he knows what I’m hiding.
I don’t know how to explain this. I don’t want to explain this. So, I follow James.
Crowds of people surge out of the stadium. I’m swallowed in the onslaught, fighting against the current. James is just ahead.
But before I reach him, his father grabs his shoulder. I stop dead in my tracks.
“Where have you been? You’re needed at the award ceremony.” Even feet away I can hear the irritation. Or more than irritation, an edge of anger. I step forward, not liking the way he’s holding James’s shoulder, like he doesn’t care how much pressure he’s placing.
“Didn’t you once tell me if it isn’t first, don’t bother showing up?” James bites back.
Mr. Murphy scans the crowd at the accusation. “I never said that. Come. They’re waiting on you. Don’t tell me you care for the Ditters boy enough to—”
This time when Mr. Murphy looks up, our gazes connect. His eyes narrow and every fiber of my being tells me to run. I turn around so fast I bump into someone. “Sorry. Sorry.”
I slip through the crowds. I should dress down Daphine and get out of here. Every moment I stay only makes things worse. It all comes down to James. Liking James Murphy when I should be avoiding him at all costs. My feelings are creating mistakes.
But I don’t find myself headed to the stables to pick up Daphine and retreat. It’s Bex, I reason. I want to make sure they don’t decry the Colm incident as Bex’s fault, label her as a threat. Because when dragons are categorized as a threat, horrible things happen.
I settle into the crowd hoping my brown leather and armor doesn’t give me away. Much of the audience dons metal, in hair clips or large buckles. But most women wear flowy bright skirts, decorated like their favorite dragon.
“Farren!”
I turn to Cara calling out to me like she used to, like we are old friends.
Nothing like how we left things at the auction house.
Alongside her stands another girl I don’t know, older than us, but younger than Shelly.
She has fair skin, bright blue eyes, and curves.
The definition of James’s type come to life.
Actually, Cara matches James’s type too.
And by this new girl’s silver barrette in her slicked-back black hair she’s also a silver-crafter. Something in my chest pinches.
“This is Farren Walsh.” Cara extends her arms toward me in a flourish of a greeting.
The mystery girl holds out a hand. “Finally, I get the pleasure. I’m Willa Quinn, Revers Academy racing recruiter.”
Quinn? That’s a famous Hardsill name. But a recruiter? “Nice to meet you.” This is the woman James’s dad wanted to make sure James impressed. I had anticipated it was going to be a man, an older man. What an embarrassing assumption.
“Willa was searching for you to discuss your flying today,” Cara explains. Everything clenches in panic. No.
“You’re a wonderful bronze-crafter,” Willa inserts.
No, no, no. I stammer for a heartbeat before reinforcing the lie. “I’m not a bronze-crafter. Copper.” And I point to my armor that bears my false identity, shiny red.
Her head tilts and I feel like she’s sizing me up. “I could have sworn you crafted Mr. Ditters to you.”
“The opposite. I crafted my copper to connect to him.”
She nods. “Ingenious.”
Within the compliment lies something undetectable.
I can’t tell if she’s bought it. If anything, my actions weren’t brilliance, but panic and skill.
If I was truly clever, I wouldn’t be in this mess.
“Thank you.” I can’t even smile, fear shakes me so badly, a coiling snake in my belly.
I can’t hold Cara’s eye contact either, or I know she’ll figure me out.
She’s already squinting at me. I need out of this conversation.
“Miss Moore told me this wasn’t your first save, too? At the start of summer, you rescued another rider from drowning?”
“That’s correct.” I can’t help but glance at James, up on that podium. Third place, an amazing feat considering how much time was lost struggling with Colm in the air and eleven other riders clamoring for the lead. That’s who she should be talking to.
She follows my eyeline. “Ah, that’s him. James Murphy, the boy who won third. Couldn’t control his dragon well there, but he is fast.”
“No, there’s more to it than that—” I cut myself off because if I were to explain that history, I know by Willa’s sharpness she’d figure me out. There’s a perceptive gleam to her.
She smiles knowingly. “It’s nice of you to defend your boyfriend.”
Cara huffs. “Those two?”
First, this recruiter thinks I’m a bronze-crafter and now she’s saying James and I are dating. This conversation couldn’t be any worse. “We aren’t dating,” I stammer.
“Huh, I’m normally good at those kinds of things.”