Page 38 of Ditching the Dragon (Fated Dates)

It’s clear the rooms are meant to be nothing more than a place to lay your head. I’ve started venturing around. It’s probably dangerous to be visible in public, but if Wick doesn’t know where I am, then should it matter?

I’ve been reading a book at a cafe in the Western Gardner District all day, this one empty except for me in the back, when my phone chimes.

I smile at the screen. Since our impromptu movie date, it’s become harder and harder to guess whether he’s being forward or truly asking.

There, that’s benign enough.

Warmth pools in my belly. I like that he’s taking care of Marni. And Violet. She’s started forwarding his updates. I get the sense they talk more than she lets on, but it’s harmless. She’s already made clear she thinks I’m being foolish by running from him but ultimately supports me.

The words cross the screen, but they feel different now. It isn’t laced with the tension he normally layers onto his requests for my return.

It sounds like a plea and not a demand.

It’s a dangerous thing to say. He’s going to think there’s hope.

But I hit send before I can think better of it. Violet’s words from the other day scratch at the back of my mind. Why would he buy Marni’s if he wanted to keep me chained?

“Excuse me,” the barista says.

I look up and find the clerk behind the counter with an alchemy burn on his jaw, placing a plate on the counter near me.

“I made a specialty order and overbaked in case of errors, but it’s a shame to throw these away. They’re perfectly fine. I had one myself. You can have them if you want them. Just don’t tell my boss.”

A little stack of macarons rests on the plate, all a lilac purple with rich yellow filling.

No one makes macarons better than Marni, but I miss them too much to care right now. I accept the plate and return to my table.

The insides are a burnt lemon that burst with tart sweetness. Lavender in the cookies adds a savory, earthy element that complements the filling.

With some trepidation, I check my phone to see what Wick’s sent back. I don’t know why I’m afraid of his response.

Maybe I worry he’ll think I’m teasing him and get mad.

Maybe I’m worried he’ll take it seriously and realize I want to know.

That’s sweet, but it doesn’t tell me anything.

I don’t respond and leave the message to fester. I should acknowledge it. I’m sure he’s spiraling on the other end.

But with every day, it becomes obvious that I can’t run forever. The money I transferred to Vi will be gone with only one more envelope. That gives me ten days—maybe two weeks if I ration it.

Instead of avoiding Wickham, I may need to prepare him for when I’m back.

Another day of monotony has me fleeing the hotel room. I take refuge in one of my favorite libraries.

The 19th century building is full of sweeping stone arches and echoing marble floors waxed to a spotless shine. The Art, Architecture, and Engineering section takes up an entire quarter of the third floor, but it looks exactly like the rest of the library.

I rest my bag on a worn armchair at the end of a chair-couch-chair-coffee table arrangement. The seating section is surrounded on all sides by stacks, so I circle the space and skim my fingers over the spines.

Once I find a book, I settle into my chair and hope no one complains when I rest my feet on the table. A librarian would hate it, but it’s awkward to read without putting my feet up.

I’m knee-deep into a discussion of artisan cities that flank high-end areas when my phone chimes. I silence it to avoid a disapproving shush and check the screen.

He’d either love or hate the discussion in the book. It’s all about people with expertise making for themselves what only the wealthy could afford.

Rolling my eyes, I set the phone on the armrest to return to the book.

Movement catches the corner of my eye.

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