The Saturday sun is bleak, rising into the sky without heat. There’s no rain scheduled until tomorrow, but the air’s frisk and humid, like it’s begging for release.

“I’m just saying, there’s no reason to not check out the shops,” Sofia says.

“So you can buy more of the coven’s leftovers?” I ask, “You realize they only sell junk, right?” We enter a cobblestone square flanked by thin, crooked shops selling trashy souvenirs.

“The Coven just doesn’t know how to use them,” she argues back. “I’ll go check real quick.” She disappears into the crowd.

The square is our town’s peak tourism chokepoint. They sell key chains of dragon skulls, and placemats of crudely photoshopped harpies roosting on top of the bell tower. A centaur trots by, pulling a cart full of shirts that say, I MET A CENTAUR AT GARA SQUARE. Worst of all are the vendors selling ‘ethically sourced’ dragon scales. “Charges your magickal appliances wirelessly!” they yell, holding the palm sized scales like playing cards. Disgusting grave robbers.

Izaak places his hand on my back, leading me towards the museum entrance. Today he’s dressed almost completely black, his prosthetic hidden by baggy trousers and sneakers. I quietly mourn the loss of color, but I understand why he doesn’t want to stand out today. His mom is more terrifying than the police.

“I’m fine,” I say, glancing back at the baskets full of dull scales. Still, Izaak doesn’t let go.

Sofia meets us at the gate. “They only had more of the same,” she says with a sour look on her face.

The museum used to be a town hall, all white marble and fake arches. There’s a guard in front of every entrance, flanked by dogs or familiars. Zhran’s blackout made sure there was no footage of him, but that doesn’t mean the city just ‘forgot’ he paid a visit. They closed the schools for two days to make sure he wasn’t a terrorist. RISE officers rode in on their griffins and other winged monstrosities, tearing through every establishment that could hide a dragon that size. It’s not illegal for dragons to exist.

But it’s a near thing.

He did destroy that excavator, Kiera says. And that blackout resulted in a lot of property damage.

“Did you bring your student pass?” Sofia asks. I hand it to her and she steps up to the booth to buy our tickets. A guard traces her body with a glass wand and nods her through. He does the same with me, but frowns when it’s Izaak’s turn.

“No magical technology,” he says, tapping the glass against Izaak’s left shin. “Have something to hide?”

Izaak pulls up the bottom half of his trousers, revealing Raphael. It’s a deep red, the color of all things violent and passionate.

“Seriously,” I say, “that one?” I agree with the guard. Raphael shouldn’t be anywhere near anything valuable for a lot of reasons.

“My knee was too swollen to fit in the others,” he answers. He bites his lip, and then makes a decision, pulling his ID from behind his phone case. He hands it to the guard.

The guard studies it. “Look kid, my boss wants me to listen to the wand. I listen to the wand. If you want to see the exhibit we have wheelchairs inside.”

“Read my last name,” Izaak bites back.

The guard squints. “Why—”

“It’s Thomas. Like, Sable Thomas.”

The guard sighs. “If you destroy anything, you’re paying my lawyer and finding me a new job. Also, I’m telling your Mom. She’s here today.”

“Deal,” Izaak says, breezing inside. We follow him into the foyer.

“You’re not afraid she’s going to show up?” I ask. I thought that was the whole point of the black clothes. Like, it’s so rare for him to wear black that his Mom won’t even recognize him if he walked right by.

“Nah,” he says, slotting his ID back in place. Drop it, his clenched shoulders say. So I do. Meanwhile Sofia pulls out the flyer she got at the ticket booth. I peek over her shoulders to follow her finger trace a path towards the exhibit hall.

“Which way’s the skull?” I ask.

Sofia veers right and starts walking. We follow her past long halls filled with paintings and statues, towards the ‘creatures’ exhibit. Our school brought us to the museum a few times, but this part of the building is new.

“It’s an exchange with Kaapstad,” Sofia says with her eyes glued to the brochure. “All of it is going back to South Africa in two days. Comet’s skeleton is the centerpiece of the collection. They found it earlier this year.”

“Two days?” I ask. That’s bad. That’s so bad if we want to do this properly.

“So we plan today and heist tomorrow,” Izaak says. “Simple.”

“Not so loud,” I hiss, eyeing the guard posted in the corner. Izaak might think himself above the law, but that doesn’t mean the law agrees.

We see Comet’s skeleton before we enter the room, peeking through the enormous leaf-shaped doors. She takes up a third of the space, her skeleton posed defiantly, with her draconic wings stretched towards the ceiling and her maw posed to strike. Her tail snakes over our heads into the other exhibits, weaving between stuffed chimeras and glass cabinets full of jars. She’s fearsome.

Poor girl, Kiera says. A lump forms in my throat before Kiera can pull themselves together. I’ve never felt their longing before—they’re not usually sentimental.

Talk to your friends.

Sofia and Izaak already raced ahead, standing as close to the skeleton as the ropes allow. One of the guards eyes them, his hand tight on his familiar’s leash, a mutt with spikes gliding down his spine.

“Whoa,” Sofia says, “that’s a big lizard.”

Izaak inspects the head. “That’s gotta weigh half a ton. How much can you carry, River?”

“Guys,” I say, “don’t act so suspicious.”

Izaak slams down his backpack, grabbing a tiny notebook and pen. “I’ll sketch the room’s layout. The roof seems promising.” ‘The roof’ is almost fully made of glass, but I doubt they’d make it that easy for burglars.

“It smells like a trap,” Sofia says. Her phone flashes as she tries to get Comet’s entire skull in one shot. “No, I say we take a window.” ‘The windows’ are the same shape as the door, just a lot smaller.

“It won’t fit,” Izaak bites back. “Unless River can shrink it. Wait,”—he turns to me—“can you do that?”

“I mean, I could, but—”

No, Kiera says.

“We’re not doing that.”

Izaak continues to scribble in his notebook. “Okay, but we’re going to need some info on what you can do.”

“Izaak.” Sofia taps his shoulder, pointing toward the far end of the room.

Izaak fumbles to hide the evidence in his hands, but it’s already too late to discard the notebook. “Shit,” he says below his breath.

Sable Thomas strides toward us, her familiar trotting next to her. She’s wearing the same outfits as the other guards, but on her it’s regal, the gold stars showing her rank a medal, her short, tight curls a crown. She has the posture of a predator; one confident she’s the most dangerous creature in the room.

“How surprised was I, when I heard my son came to the museum without handcuffs,” she says.

Izaak shrinks under her gaze, fiddling with the pen in his hands “I didn’t think he’d actually tell you.”

Sable Thomas inspects the guards in the room. They stand at perfect attention, very casually not looking at us. “Well, they know what’s good for them,” she says, turning towards Comet’s skeleton. “Whose idea was this?”

None of us speak. The consequence of a wrong answer could mean death.

“River’s,” Izaak says eventually. He pushes the notebook in my hand, betraying years of friendship. “You know he draws, right? He wanted to draw the skeleton. For reference.”

It’s such a shit-faced lie. I have a sketchbook on my desk, but it’s filled with nothing but scribbles. If she asks me to draw a skeleton, there’s a higher chance of the paper catching fire than of it looking like it should.

Sable Thomas studies the notebook in my hands. “Well, thank you for bringing Izaak. This place is good. I often run the night shift, so I know a lot about the exhibits.”

“You do?” Izaak asks.

She nods.

“Cool.”

The four of us stand there, unsure of what to say.

“I’m on the clock,” Sable Thomas says eventually. She takes a single step towards Izaak, and then changes her mind. Her hand brushes past the embroiled stars on her vest. “We could come back when I’m not,” she says. “On the clock, I mean. Just us.”

Izaak’s face lights up. I’ve never seen someone wearing all black shine so bright. “Really?”

“I’ll take a day,” Sable Thomas says. The sides of her mouth quirk up, and this time she doesn’t hesitate to push her hand through Izaak’s curls. “You kids have fun.”

We watch her go, whistling a sharp command for her familiar to follow her.

“I want to be your Mom,” Sofia says.

Izaak tries to hide how pleased he is, but he’s like a happy dog trying not to wag his tail—his body shakes instead. “She’s all right.”

After that the other guards leave us alone. We circle the room, making notes of windows, alarms, perches, escape routes. Sometimes Izaak leans in close to whisper questions about my magic in my ear. The other exhibits are gnarly, snarling beasts, resentful of being used as props. One of the Chimeras stands out, a rare pureblood that must’ve survived for centuries to get that big. It’s a lion the size of a truck, its mane spike instead of fur and its tail scaled, with a snake-head at its end. There are some smaller dragons which I skip, Kiera’s heart clutching my throat until I look away. I’ve never been so glad Mom’s human.

Food’s forbidden in the halls, so after lunchtime our stomachs beg for bagels from Sofia’s bakery. On our way back we avoid the square, taking the longer but faster route through the alleyways. Izaak’s starting to limp a little, just noticeable if you know his gait. Sometimes it hurts him to wear prosthetics, and he comes to school on crutches. At home he’s an expert at hopping and flipping his way up and down their narrow, steep rooms with no help at all.

Sofia’s bakery—or Sofia’s parent’s bakery, but that’s such a mouthful—isn’t just a bakery. They have booths too, with cheerful yellow benches, where they serve breakfast and lunch. They don’t have menus—you just order pastries and they charge an Eye extra for seating. Their coffee’s acceptable. Their pastries, however, are art.

There’s a part-timer behind the counter. Sofia’s parents think they barely speak English and are shy about serving customers. They bake in the back, delicious bread and pastries that make you gluttonous. With lunchtime over we find a booth easily. Sofia leaves us to haggle for freebies in the kitchen.

Izaak sits across from me. He unbuckles Raphael, placing it next to him on the bench. He pulls a black sleeve out of his backpack. “The swelling went down,” he explains, “so now I’ll need an extra sock to fit Raph.” He slips it on and fastens the prosthetic in place like nothing happened.

Magic can’t grow back limbs, but sue me for looking into it. There are artifacts that can help, tools woven of Selkie skins or carved from Argok antlers. But I trust Kiera more than the ‘experts’, and they say no. That’s life, kid, they’d said, if you try to walk backwards there’s nothing but pits to fall into.

Sofia all but skips coming back from the kitchen, a whole basked with fresh bagels in her hands. Her father watches from the door, an enormous bag of flour pushing down on his shoulder. He waves at us, his beefy hand sodden with flour. Izaak and I wave back and he disappears back into the kitchen.

“Thanks Da!” Sofia calls over her shoulder. We waste no time biting into the gooey, buttery snack.

“So,” Sofia says, “let’s plan a heist.”