“Different time? Darling, he used to wear these elaborate robes,” she tells me, ignoring his increasingly agitated tail movements. “All gold embroidery and silk. Very dramatic. Though I suppose the vest and sash look suits him better these days…”
I try not to obviously imagine Sundar in ornate robes. Try, and fail miserably.
“I was young,” he mutters, but there’s something almost fond in his expression as he pretends to organize a shelf of cursed jewelry.
“Young?” Mrs. Brindlewood laughs. “Darling, you were already ancient by human standards. But oh, the way you’d lecture about proper artifact handling! As if humans hadn’t been making their own magic for millennia.”
I lean forward, desperate to hear more about Sundar’s past, but Mrs. Brindlewood suddenly glances at an ornate pocket watch that definitely wasn’t in her claws a moment ago.
“Oh heavens, is that the time?” She rises in a flutter of wings. “I’m meant to be at my great-great-great-great-granddaughter’sdance recital. Promising young thing—finally mastering her wing discipline while performing ballet. They grow up so fast!”
“But—” I start, then catch myself. “I mean, thank you for the scones.”
“Any time, dear.” She winks at me, then stage-whispers, “And don’t let his stern act fool you. Under all those scales beats a heart of gold.” With that, she sweeps toward the door, calling over her shoulder, “We’ll chat more next time. I havecenturiesof stories to share!”
Once she’s gone, Sundar’s hood slowly relaxes, though his tail still twitches. “You shouldn’t put too much stock in Mrs. Brindlewood’s tales. Age has made her prone to embellishment.”
“Uh-huh.” I can’t help smiling. “That’s why you let her come by whenever she wants, bringing baked goods and telling embarrassing stories about you? Because she’s senile?”
“I merely respect my elders.”
“Right. Of course.” I bite back a grin. “Very practical of you.”
He mutters something that might be a curse in an ancient language before slithering away to the back office, but I’m pretty sure he’s just trying to hide his endearment toward the old dragon.
The shop’s closing ritualhas become comfortingly familiar after just a week. While Sundar balances the register, I organize receipts and ledgers, trying not to stare at how the late amber light gleams on the iridescent scales of his tail.
I’m sorting through today’s transactions when something catches my eye. The silver locket Mrs. Martinez brought in earlier—it’s here in the ledger, marked with a loan for two hundred fifty dollars. I could have sworn Sundar whispered to me it wasn’t worth much more than that. And he’s waived interest for the first month.
“The loan on the locket today,” I begin cautiously. “You loaned her almost the full value of it. Did you mean to do that?”
His hood flares slightly, the faintest ripple of irritation. “You think I’ve made a mistake?”
“No, it’s not that.” I point at the ledger. “It’s just—you overvalued her locket, didn’t you?”
His eyes flick to the page, cool and unreadable. “The terms are fair.”
A cryptic answer if I’ve ever heard one. Something nags at me, and curiosity wins out over better judgment. I flip back through other entries, scanning the careful handwriting marking out Sundar’s transactions.
There’s Mr. Chen’s entry—a loan for his vintage Leica camera, far more generous than its noted final value. No interest hasbeen charged either, even after multiple late payments. Another page shows Mr. Patterson’s loan for his family’s war medals, with a note in Sundar’s precise script:Extended redemption period—no interest.Any other pawnbroker would have melted those medals down for the gold content by now. Yet Sundar kept them for months, waiting patiently.
The more entries I read, the tighter my throat feels. A pattern begins to take shape. Over and over again, the same quiet generosity is repeated. A widow in need, a struggling parent, a veteran out of work. Bigger loans than the items justified. Waived interest. Extended timelines. Even repairs to items labeled as “routine maintenance” and never charged.
I glance up at Sundar, who’s still focused on his careful balancing of the register. His exterior is cold and controlled, like always. But in the ledgers, he’s written out a story of compassion—one he hides as if he’s embarrassed by it, even while it must have cost him tens of thousands in lost profits.
And then, a chilling thought strikes me, sharper than the edge of a pawned hunting knife.
Why didn’t he treat me the same way?
I flip back to my own transaction, fingers trembling slightly. There it is: my bracelet’s entry, documented in his elegant script. Full market value noted. Higher than usual interest rate. No special considerations, no quiet mercy.
He’s lost thousands helping others, but with me…
My chest feels tight as unwanted conclusions start forming.
Maybe this explains everything. His tail might act interested sometimes, but clearlyhesees me differently than his other customers. Less deserving of mercy. Or maybe he just doesn’t…
I stare at the numbers until they blur, trying to squash down the hurt that’s building. It’s stupid to feel this way. He doesn’t owe me anything. It’s his business, his choice who to help. And yet…
