Page 81 of Nobody Told Me Thrift Shops Sell Stolen Dragon Heirlooms

Dr. Georgiana Sorel was taller than Miriam by several inches, willowy and elegant, with piercing eyes and the kind of posture that made everyone around her remember their mothers had once told them to stand up straight.

She was listening to a man in a navy tuxedo talk about endowment structures.

Miriam squeezed my hand, then released it.

“Georgiana,” she said.

Dr. Sorel turned. Her gaze landed on Miriam first, softened almost imperceptibly, then moved to Rafe and went professional. When it reached me, it didn’t dismiss me, exactly, but it sorted me quickly: young, unfamiliar, not donor class, standing beside the dragon claimant and a very dignified dog.

“Darling,” Dr. Sorel said. “I’m in the middle of⁠—”

“I know.” Miriam smiled. “You’re always in the middle of something.”

The donor in the navy tuxedo laughed uncertainly.

Dr. Sorel didn’t. “Mr. Virelli and I have already agreed that his office should contact Elaine.”

“That’s why I’m here,” Miriam said.

Dr. Sorel’s gaze sharpened. “You’re not Elaine.”

“Thank God,” Miriam said. “Elaine has suffered enough tonight.”

Dr. Sorel’s attention shifted to Max. For one second, the severity of her face rearranged itself around surprise. “And this is?”

“Maximus Decimus Aurelius Bradley,” I said. “Max, mostly. Retired military. Excellent tie model.”

Max sat. Show off.

Dr. Sorel looked down at him, and to her credit, she didn’t immediately reach. “He is remarkably composed.”

“He practices,” I said.

“Unlike several trustees,” Miriam added.

“Not now,” Dr. Sorel said quietly.

Miriam’s smile stayed in place, but her posture changed. Her shoulders drew back, and her eyes moved to Georgiana with quiet purpose. “Georgiana.”

“Miriam.” Dr. Sorel’s voice remained low, but the edge in it was clear. “I’m handling a complicated matter in the middle of a charity event. I can’t pause every time you decide someone has a sympathetic face.”

Rafe and I stiffened. The donor in the navy tuxedo suddenly developed a fascination with his champagne.

Miriam didn’t flinch, which almost made it worse.

She looked at her wife for one long second and said, gently, “Xanthippe.”

Dr. Sorel went quiet.

The word didn’t change the room. The quartet kept playing. Someone laughed too loudly near the bar. A server passed behind us with a tray of tiny tarts. Glasses clinked.

But between the two women, something stopped.

The sharpness in Dr. Sorel’s eyes receded, leaving recognition behind it. Then her mouth softened, and she turned fully toward Miriam as if the rest of us had gone out of focus.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

Miriam’s shoulders lowered half an inch. “Thank you.”