flicked a few more bacon bits to the waiting mouth beneath her.
“The bursar says the tuition’s due Monday.”
A bit of pepper jelly stuck in her teeth. She worked it free.
“I mean, it’s not like I didn’t have it, right? It was in their hands. It’s their fault if they give it back.”
The fork scraped the last of her eggs from the paper plate, cleaned as ruthlessly as by any dishwasher.
“This is ridiculous. I’m not the one who should have to figure this out!”
She tipped back a mouthful of coffee so hot it brought tears to her eyes. The tears didn’t stop, streaming down her cheeks and dripping onto the greasy smears on the table in front of her.
Her father said nothing.
“I’m sorry, Dad,” she said after a minute. “I just—I don’t know what to do.”
The cat nudged her again, but she’d run out of bacon.
“I know I promised.” The words came slowly. “I know what you want for me. I want it too—I really do. If I could get the shop up and running again without that stupid certificate, I would. You know I would. But …”
It hung out there, an invitation, pleading for conciliation, forgiveness, anything.
Her father said nothing.
Melee hung her head. “But I promised,” she whispered.
No more tears came. She wished they would, wished she could curl up somewhere and cry for hours, could let herself wallow in self-pity for the sheer selfish pleasure of it. A sharp, double-edged pleasure that solved nothing, but it would feel better than this.
She stood up and cleared the table in silence: one plate scoured clean, one untouched. Her dad’s dinner went into an empty cottage-cheese container in the fridge. It would be her breakfast tomorrow. The cat watched her as she paused for a moment behind her dad’s wheelchair. Fresh tears sprang to her eyes as she touched the armrest.
“You know what I wish more than anything?” she said.
Still he said nothing.
“Yeah, actually. I bet you do.”
She swept up her satchel and jacket and slipped through the labyrinth of memories occupying their living room. At the door, she paused. She could just make out the kitchen, the table, and the wheelchair that had been empty for nearly a month.
“I miss you, Dad.”
She didn’t bother parking the dragon somewhere away from the night crowds. Their gawping didn’t depreciate it, and most were too drunk to remember in the morning. The lights in Pawn Row were, of course, burning brightly as the proprietors turned to their true business. The dragon settled into an easy crouch by the curb outside Carl’s shop as she whistled it locked. The golden fire flowed out of its eyes, and in that moment Melee wondered if she should have considered the institute’s alternate tuition payment plan. After all, what more use had she of her soul? There were always those buy-back options after graduation. Risky, but maybe worth it …
“Melee?”
Carl appeared on the doorstep, his velvet dressing gown swishing dramatically even though there was no wind. His fangs protruded from beneath his upper lip and he had the tiniest smudge of blood on his chin, but he looked down at her with genuine concern.
“Are you all right, darling? What are you doing out this late? After what you paid today, you should be resting!” His eyes flicked to the dragon, and Melee caught the glimmer of understanding in their red depths. She’d never parked it on the street before.
“You said collectors would be interested in my dragon, right?” she asked.
“Well, yes. Naturally. But you said—”
“I know what I said.” She straightened. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Never let them see you cry. “This is what I’m saying now. Do you know any of these collectors personally?”
“One or two, but, Melee …” Carl trailed off as he searched her face. After a long moment, his fangs retracted and he put a hand on her shoulder. Despite its inhuman chill and frightening strength, his touch was comforting. “What do you need from me?”
The words weighed on her tongue, weighed on her heart. She felt the dragon’s eyes on her and somewhere, somehow, her father’s eyes too. I’m sorry, Dad.
“How much?”
HIKAYAT SRI BUJANG, OR, THE TALE OF THE NAGA SAGE
Zen Cho (zencho.org) is the author of a short story collection, Spirits Abroad; two historical fantasy novels, Sorcerer to the Crown and The True Queen; and a novella, The Order of the Pure Moon Reflected in Water. She is a winner of the Crawford, British Fantasy, and Hugo awards, and a finalist for the Locus and John W. Campbell awards. She was born and raised in Malaysia, resides in the United Kingdom, and lives in a notional space between the two.
The day that ruined the naga sage Sri Bujang’s life dawned like any other, free of untoward omens. The mountains were wreathed by a romantic mist, out of which the peaks rose like islands in a vague gray sea.
A sage must be self-disciplined if they are to acquire sufficient merit to achieve liberation. Sri Bujang followed a strict daily routine. Every morning, he rose when it was still dark and did his stretches. These helped keep his long serpentine body limber and were good for opening his third eye.
As he contorted into spiritually rewarding shapes, sunlight spilled over the horizon, burning off the mist. Sri Bujang had all three eyes fixed on the ground, his mind a perfect blank, when suddenly the gold light turned gray. Lightning blazed across the sky, followed by the rumble of thunder.
The rain would have been obliterating for anyone who was not a naga. For Sri Bujang, of course, water was no different from air. With perfect clarity he saw the naga emerge from the forest—and recognized her.
“Kakanda,” said his sister.
Sri Bujang froze. His third eye snapped shut. It had always been considered rude in his family to have it open in mixed company.
“Adinda,” he said. If he’d had time to prepare, he might have come up with a greeting befitting a naga sage, suitably combining the gnomic and the
