Page 142 of Nobody Told Me Thrift Shops Sell Stolen Dragon Heirlooms

I leaned slightly toward Rafe. “Who’s the old man?”

Rafe’s gaze didn’t leave the front of the room. “Dimitris Burelian.”

“Should I know that name?”

“Yes.”

“That was informative. Thank you so much.”

His mouth tightened, but his irritation wasn’t directed at me. “Collector. Hoarder of priceless cultural artifacts. He has spent decades acquiring relics that should have been returned to families, clans, and courts who lost them during the Winged War and other conflicts.”

“Hoarder,” I murmured. “Like a dragon?”

Rafe turned his head very slowly. “He’s a phoenix.”

Every drop of humor dissipated. “Oh.”

“Yes.”

“Oh,” I said again, this time with significantly more historical awareness and less need to be funny.

Everyone knew the broad shape of the Winged War, even humans who slept through Olden Folk history in school. Dragons and phoenixes had once been powerful enough to bend economies, borders, weather patterns, and entire royal successions. Then they had gone to war and kept going until the world had fewer of both. Rafe had taught me the personal version that came with displaced families and songs remembered by mothers on balconies. The public version was tidier and therefore easier to digest.

“I’m sorry.”

Rafe gave one short nod, accepting the apology without making me suffer under it. “Dimitris Burelian is one of the few phoenixes left old enough to remember the war personally.”

I looked back at the man in the second row. “He looks…”

“Old?”

“I was going to say harmless, but yes. He does look old.”

“That is his natural form now.” Rafe’s voice stayed low. “Phoenixes regenerate through fire, but regeneration is not the same as youth. If he burns hot enough, he can return to a younger body for a time. By morning, he would look like this again.”

“That sounds exhausting.”

“I suspect he finds it theatrical.”

“So he’s not pretending to be an old man?”

“No. He is an old man. He simply has options.”

I looked back at Dimitris Burelian. He was smiling at the auctioneer, who smiled back too quickly.

Something about that caught under my skin.

Lot 20 came up: an illuminated bestiary page attributed to a monastery that had once served mixed human and Olden Folk communities. Luke Gildstein bid early. Dimitris let him. The auctioneer’s gaze kept dropping toward Dimitris after every call. When Dimitris leaned back, the auctioneer moved slowly. When Dimitris lifted one finger from his cane, the auctioneer suddenly found a burst of speed.

Rafe raised his paddle once, then again, pushing the price up by ten thousand.

Dimitris’s mild smile didn’t change. He raised his paddle. Rafe raised his. Dimitris raised his again. The auctioneer looked delighted in a way I didn’t trust.

“Sold to paddle thirty-two.”

Rafe lowered his paddle.

“Were you bidding because you wanted it?” I asked.