The sign was crooked. Sun-bleached. Half a corner torn off like some goat thought it was edible.

  It was nailed to the post at the crossroad, just above head height, so I had to stand on my tiptoes to read it. Sweat already pricking at my neck. Not from the heat.

  From the words.

  Big block letters again. My kind. That was the only mercy.

  I squinted. Licked my lips. Traced the first one.

  “Duh…” I whispered. “D…A…N…”

  A long pause.

  “Densers,” I mumbled.

  “Dancers,” said a passing farmer without even slowing down.

  I scowled after him. “Was getting there.”

  Refocused. Next line.

  “Wa…waaaa…” I hissed through my teeth. “Want…ed. Dancers wanted.”

  My finger slid down the board. Next line. Smaller letters. Less mercy.

  Stolen story; please report.

  “Foorr… eve…even…”

  “Evenings,” came a voice.

  I didn’t even turn. “If one more peasant corrects me, I swear I’ll bite.”

  “Calm down,” the dragon said, appearing beside me like a judgmental stormcloud. “I was just helping.”

  “You can help by letting me finish before my pride dies of blood loss.”

  He tilted his head. “You were on...?”

  I jabbed the word. “Evenings. Got it. Evenings and—what’s that? Dan…c…ing and drink…servin’?”

  “Serving,” he said.

  “Same difference,” I muttered. “And what’s that squiggly one?”

  He leaned in. “Auditions.”

  I blinked. “Oh. I thought that said ‘addictions.’”

  “Understandable,” he said dryly. “Given your history.”

  I stuck my tongue out at him and went back to the last line.

  “In…in…quire…”

  “,” he said, rubbing his snout. “At the inn.”

  “I going to say that.”

  “You said ‘in-quar.’”

  “I going to fix it!”

  He gave me a long look.

  I stared back up at the sign. Read the whole thing again, under my breath, slowly, lips moving, finger tracing every letter like it owed me money.

  Dancers wanted. Evenings. Dancing and drink serving. Inquire at the inn.

  “I could do that,” I muttered.

  The dragon raised a brow. “You planning to audition with or without the ability to read your own job description?”

  I flipped my hair. “I can read enough. Letters. Curves. Intent. And I’ve got the hips for it.”

  He snorted. “Just don’t sign the contract backwards this time.”

  “I my S backwards,” I said proudly. “It’s my signature.”

  “It’s a crime against orthography.”

  “It’s flair,” I sniffed.

  I gave the signpost a little pat. “Besides. Who needs perfect reading when you’ve got perfect form?”

  Then I turned and strutted toward the inn.

  Backwards S and all.