“This,” she says, lifting her wrist. “It’s… It’s a family heirloom.”
The bracelet is beautiful, clearly antique, with delicate gold filigree that speaks of European craftsmanship. But what catches my attention is the subtle thrum of old magic woven through it. Not powerful enough to be dangerous, but definitely more than mere metal.
Protection magic, if I’m not mistaken. But it’s extremely weak. It probably wouldn’t even protect her from a paper cut.
Odd.
I lean closer, scenting the air around her. Beyond her personal fragrance, which is distractingly pleasant, I smell the age of the gold, the lingering touch of whoever enchanted it, and—most importantly—her emotional attachment to it. It radiates from her in waves: guilt, determination, and a bone-deep reluctance that makes my hood want to flare in irritation.
But I manage to contain myself.
“Why do your hands shake when you offer it?” I ask, perhaps more sharply than intended.
The idea of someone being forced to sell a precious family piece… It offends something deep in my nature. We nagas are guardians, protectors of treasures. Part of my nature bristles at the disrespect to such an artifact, as much as I try to retain a professional demeanor.
Yet, she doesn’t respond to my question. I’m not sure whether she’s scared of me, or simply doesn’t want to part with her item.
For some reason, part of me hopes it isn’t the former…
“Perhaps,” I say carefully, softening my voice as I watch her fingers curl protectively around the bracelet, “you should consider whether this is truly what you wish to do.”
Her spine straightens. “I wouldn’t be here if I had other options.”
The defeat in her voice wars with the stubborn set of her jaw, and suddenly I understand: She’s not here on a whim. Whateverdrove her to my shop has backed her into a corner, yet she faces it with a peculiar mix of resignation and defiance that I find compelling.
I lower my head slightly, bringing myself closer to her eye level. “Very well. May I?” I extend my hand, palm up, waiting.
She hesitates only a moment before unclasping the bracelet. As she places it in my palm, our fingers brush. The contact sends an unexpected vibration through my scales, and I have to consciously prevent my tail from twitching. Her skin is warm, soft, and the brief touch leaves me unreasonably aware of how long it’s been since I’ve had any physical contact with another being.
But never mind that.
The bracelet itself holds secrets, and as I hold it, it’s easier to sense the old magic woven through the metal, dormant but present, like a lullaby hummed in a forgotten language. Curious.
But what interests me more is how her scent changes as she watches me examine it—notes of anxiety mixing with something sweeter, almost like hope.
“It’s been in my family for generations,” she offers, unprompted.
I turn it over in my hands, admiring its quality. “The workmanship is exceptional. Early twentieth century, I’d estimate. The gold content alone—”
“Look,” she interrupts, “I know how pawn shops work. You’re going to tell me it’s worth way less than it is, and I’ll have to pretend to believe you because I need the money. Can we skip the negotiation dance?”
Her bluntness startles a low chuckle from me. I notice how she shivers slightly at the noise, though not from fear.
“You wound me,” I say as I shift my tail beneath me. “I pride myself on fair valuations. Though if you’re so eager to skip the ‘negotiation dance,’ as you put it…” I pause, studying her reaction. “One thousand dollars.”
Her eyes widen. Clearly, she had expected less, which only confirms my suspicion that she’s never had this bracelet appraised before. The bracelet is worth more—much more—but I hesitate to offer its full value.It’s not out of greed—I have little use for human currency. Rather, I worry that handing her too much at once would solve her troubles entirely, and she might never come back to recover the bracelet.
It’s selfish, perhaps, but I need insurance. A reason for her to return.
“That’s…” She swallows hard. “That’s very generous.”
“I assume you’ll want to reclaim it,” I say, keeping my voice neutral even as my tail coils tighter beneath me. “Thirty days. After that, it becomes mine.”
The color drains from her face. “Thirty days? That’s not very long.”
“Standard policy.” It isn’t. I usually give ninety days, but the words are already out. Something primitive in me wants to see her before then, wants to watch her storm back in with determination blazing in those beautiful eyes.
She bites her lower lip, and I’m inexplicably fascinated by the gesture. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. You’re a pawnbroker after all. You thrive off people’s desperation.”
