Five weeks. I’d offered her five weeks of employment, telling myself it was a practical solution to her financial troubles and my need for assistance. But I know the truth, don’t I?
I’d deliberately set harsh terms on her bracelet’s loan, hoping she’d need to return, hoping to keep her coming back. Then,when the opportunity presented itself, I’d crafted this position, paying well above market rate, just to keep her close.
“Good morning,” I respond, watching as she moves to her workspace. She maintains a careful distance as she passes, just far enough that my tail can’t possibly brush against her by accident. The precision of it makes my scales itch.
I’m not used to feeling guilty. Nagas are negotiators by nature; we take pride in crafting deals that serve our purposes. But watching her now, seeing how she’s drawn this professional veil between us, I wonder if she’s figured out my machinations. If she’s realized I’m no better than any other creature who’s tried to bind her with obligations.
Though at least I’m paying her well for the privilege.
No, the thought sounds hollow even in my own mind.
“I’ll start with yesterday’s inventory,” she says, not quite meeting my eyes. “Unless you need me for something else?”
The formality in her voice… It isn’t what I wanted. Yes, I arranged to have her here, but not like this—not with all her warmth locked away behind careful courtesy.
“No, that’s… fine.”
She nods and turns away, leaving me to wonder how I managed to negotiate myself into exactly the wrong kind of victory. I’m centuries old, having honed the art of crafting perfect deals,yet somehow I’ve arranged things so that she’s physically closer than ever while feeling impossibly far away.
I try not to make it too obvious as I watch her begin her morning routine. She’s only been here a week, yet already the shop feels wrong without her usual commentary about our stranger items, or her ridiculous theories about which items secretly hate each other.
Now she’s all business, carefully documenting new arrivals without a single comment about their possible vendettas. I want to provoke a reaction—to mention that the typewriter seems depressed by her lack of attention, or that the temperamental tea set misses her terrible puns.
Instead, I maintain my own professional distance. After all, I’m the one who orchestrated this situation. Who am I to complain when she’s simply treating it like the business arrangement I pretended it was?
My tongue flicks out, tasting her lingering hurt on the air, and I wonder if—
That’s when another scent hits my tongue. One that makes my entire body go rigid.
Moments later, the shop’s bell chimes with deliberate delicacy, and the scent is unmistakable now. Sandalwood and lotus, with that underlying bite of venom I remember all too well.
Nalini.
She enters exactly as she always has, each movement a performance. Her scales shimmer silver and gold in the shop’s lighting, like autumn leaves caught in sunlight. Everything about her is precisely as I remember—the way she holds her hood, the elegant curve of her throat, the fluid grace of her tail.
We’d been a striking pair once, or so everyone said. Both of us proud temple guardians, both dedicated to our sacred duties. Both wrong about so many things.
“Sundar,” she says, and even her voice is exactly the same—honey over steel. “How… quaint your little shop has become.”
The word ‘quaint’ drops like poison between us. Years ago, when I’d announced my intention to open this shop, she’d used the same tone. “How quaint,” she’d said then, “that you think dealing with humans will fulfill you.”
I’m aware of Aubrey at her workstation, carefully still but alert. In my peripheral vision, I see her watching us both, taking in details most humans would miss. The way Nalini’s hood spreads in subtle dominance. The careful distance she maintains while still managing to loom. All the little power plays that had once seemed so important in temple politics.
“The shop serves its purpose,” I say neutrally, though my tail wraps around itself. Then, as if we didn’t have decades of history between us, I say, “Were you looking for something specific today?”
Nalini glides deeper into the shop, examining our displays with theatrical disdain. “Oh, I was simply in the area. Taking a break after a long stint at the Bangkok temple.” Her tongue flicks out, tasting the air. “Though I see you’re still doing business with humans. Even seem to have hired one. How… progressive of you.”
I catch Aubrey’s slight shift in posture—not from fear, but rather the quiet alertness of someone cataloging potential threats. It reminds me of how she handles difficult customers, reading the room with an instinct she’s perfected over her years of retail and waitressing work.
“Though I suppose,” Nalini continues, sliding closer to the counter, “someonehas to handle the simpler transactions. Such ordinary tchotchkes are beneath our kind.”
The insult hangs in the air, and I find myself fighting two warring instincts. The first, bred from centuries of temple politics, is to maintain careful neutrality. The second, far more visceral, is to bare my fangs at anyone who would dismiss Aubrey’s contributions so carelessly.
Before I can decide, Aubrey steps forward. There’s something in her posture that catches my attention—not the nervous energy of our first meeting, nor even the careful professionalism she’s maintained all morning.
Instead, she moves with the quiet confidence of someone who has handled far worse than a condescending naga.
“Welcome,” Aubrey says, her voice carrying that particular tone that only career service workers can master—perfectly pleasant while suggesting volumes. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”
