Page 23 of Nobody Told Me Thrift Shops Sell Stolen Dragon Heirlooms

“He also asked if law school was, quote, ‘basically like debate team with debt.’”

“Well, now you’re just making my case for me. He was handsome and stupid with a good paying job. Sometimes that’s beneficial.”

“He also collected haunted dolls.”

Octavia waved that off. “Everybody needs a hobby.”

I glanced around. It always looked as though several glamorous eccentrics had exploded in pleasing succession. Racks of silk blouses and coats ran in loosely organized rows. Costume jewelry glinted in glass cases and on old velvet busts. There were lacquered cabinets, brass lamps, embroidered cushions, bowls of loose bracelets, a bin labeled VESTS/VEST-ADJACENT, and the back wall had been given over to shoes that ranged from sensible loafers to what I could only describe as architectural masterpieces.

The store always smelled faintly of cedar, dust, and perfume samples from another era. It was one of my favorite places in New York, and not because everything in it was beautiful. Frankly, some of the pieces were indefensible, but it had all survived being discarded once already, and Octavia was giving it a second chance and giving people a chance to discover things they might treasure.

Octavia rose with a soft grunt and brushed off her jacket. “How bad was it this week?”

I let out a breath. “Bad enough that I’m here on a Sunday to touch fabrics for emotional support.”

Her expression softened. “That bad?”

I considered lying, but Octavia was eighty and had, I suspected, bullied the truth out of better people than me.

“Pretty bad,” I admitted. “But in a temporary, character-building way.”

She softened then, like she usually did when I let my edges show. “You’re still the brightest thing in any room you walk into, sweetheart. Don’t let them train that out of you.”

The words landed more poignantly than I could handle, so I deflected. “You know, this would all hit harder if you weren’t bribing my dog with salmon.”

She gave me a look. “Bribery? Never! I prefer to think of it as support.” Then she pointed a lacquered fingernail toward the racks. “Go look around. You’re pale. That means you need color.”

“I’m pale because I never see the sun.”

“You’re pale because you’re overworked and under-accessorized. Shop, Quinn.”

Saluting, I moved off, Max at my side, his tail wagging contentedly.

I drifted through the racks slowly, fingers moving over silk, wool, brocade, cotton. To me, shopping had never been about brands so much as texture and construction. I liked clothes with convictions and possibility. A sharp print under a sober blazer. A blouse in a color people with trust funds called “too much” even as they envied it. I liked good tailoring, weird details, sleeves that did a little too much, fabrics that persevered, and shoes that might have been designed by a woman in the middle of a very satisfying revenge arc.

My wardrobe, constrained as it was by reality and the legal profession’s deep distrust of joy, still ran toward bright silk shell tops under dark suit jackets, patterned scarves, showy earrings, and shoes no one could accuse of being practical: floral platform boots, chartreuse loafers with gold hardware the size of small brooches, strappy, open-toed sandals that probably belonged in a painting of Greek goddesses, and spectacular black ankle boots with a Lucite heel shaped like stacked dice that I had nowhere to wear but loved too much to part with.

I was halfway through admiring a green jacquard jacket with shoulders broad enough to negotiate peace treaties when I noticed Max had gone on alert.

He touched his nose briefly to the back of my hand, then turned his head and looked to the back of the store.

“What?” I murmured.

He took two steps, then looked back at me.

Interesting. Normally, when Max accompanied me shopping, his chief contribution was moral support and the occasional expression of concern over my shoe choices. This was different. This was work-brain. Search-brain.

“All right,” I said softly. “Such. Search.”

He moved off with intent, weaving between an endcap of handbags and a rack of sequined skirts. I followed him past the shoes and a shelf of ceramic lamps shaped like fruit, to the jewelry section near the back window.

At first, I thought he was marking the glass case itself, because it held the usual glorious chaos of thrift-store jewelry: tangled chains, rhinestone bracelets, clip-ons the size of civic monuments, beads, brooches, costume rings, old lockets, suspicious cameos. But he lowered his nose and touched a tiny box sitting half-hidden behind a chipped, wooden display bust.

“Well,” I said. “That’s not ominous at all.”

He touched it again, more insistently this time, then let out an unusual whine.

It was slightly larger than a ring box, and when I picked it up, I thought it was made of wood. But the second it settled into my palm, I felt the difference. It was cool despite the overheated store, smooth in a way age hadn’t managed to roughen, and heavier than cheap materials usually were.