0001-03-19 - Are you open?

Set hours would do a lot for Cad's bottom line, probably, but are just one of the myriad ways that his sense for making deals has not resulted in his being a much more affluent man than he actually is. Not that he's doing poorly, here, clearly. But whether the shop's open in the morning or late in the evening, you're probably just going to have to wander by to see.

Owing to the fact that Cad didn't actually open this morning until nearly midday, he is now burning midnight oil. Or nine-in-the-evening oil. Nine-in-the-evening glows? The lighting inside comes from a dozen different sources of varying brightness and warmth: both, then, and not cheaply. It's at least easy to tell, at night; there's a big front window, still unshuttered, shedding a lot of light out into the road. A small collection of men are freeloading, standing around near the door having a conversation with no apparent intent to go inside, but Cad hasn't shooed them off, perhaps hoping that one of them will feel a sudden need for the decorative glassware on display there.

Absent any customers having ventured inside, Cad is inside dealing with new merchandise at the desk that serves for both checkout and other business. He has a wooden crate--basically the size of a milk crate--full of fist-sized carvings wrapped up in fabric, and he's taking them out one by one to unwrap them and start cleaning accumulated dust out of their crevices with a slim brush and a magnifying glass.

There's a brief change in the cadence of the conversation outside the shop in response to a new voice. The chat carries on a bit, long enough for pleasantries to have been exchanged and then some, but if they're just window-shopping, then she's moseying on past them after an innocuous exchange. Pausing at the threshold to take stock of the interior, all the lights on collected in a sweeping pass of dark eyes that find their way around to attach to the proprietor, brows climbing at the delicacy of the task he presents. For a few seconds, her mouth works around some words (probably 'hi' like people do), but her brows wind up crumpling to a knit, and she approaches with her arms folding and her head tilting contemplatively along the way.

About three steps away, she gets out, "Are you busy?" But, like, it's a real question: is he actually busy? She honestly can't seem to tell.

Maybe one flick of glance up, but brief; if she's not going to say anything, Cad's just going to pretend he didn't see her and keep up what he's doing. He sticks the brush handle in his mouth as he reaches for the next item in the crate. He keeps unwrapping as he answers her, still holding it with his teeth. "Always." This is not his best customer service offering. Then he plucks the brush out to tack on, "But never too busy for you. Are you looking for something in particular tonight? Or have you brought me something?"

"Really?" The short, "Huh," that follows is of the surprised variety. "Does this actually make you money?" Miya clears her throat afterward, drumming up a smile that doesn't touch her eyes. It's also not her best customer service, but she presses on pluckily as if both of them have rolled out their respective red carpets. "A little bit of both. You might even call it," wait for it with a held up finger and a suspenseful inhale, "a trade."

"More than putting them out for sale looking grimy. It's the little things." Someone lives in the details, don't they? But he shows no signs of minding the disrespectful implications, and sets everything aside to give her his full attention, even if the smile isn't fully businesslike. Nothing about it an ounce less than genuine, however. "A trade. I have some vague, distant memories of such things. Well, then, make me a proposal, and we'll see if I can do something for you."

Something about this all isn't computing for Miya, and it shows in the way she continues to eye this occupation with an unconvinced squint. The decision not to pursue the subject plays itself out in the smoothing of her expression and the clasp of her hands in front of her, moving on~. She's not darling enough to pull of angelic, so pleasantly calculating is the way of the answering smile that, as previously mentioned, is largely superficial. "I need a few pots, like Crom ovens? Ones that keep things really warm for a while with a lid on top of them." (As in. Dutch ovens. But on Pern.) Deep breath, and now her smile dips toward authenticity but heavy on the chagrin, shoulders wincing up preemptively; "On-spec?"

"You've met someone nice? Settling down, nice little cothold somewhere, taking up cooking?" A wink, but so quick one could miss it. Cad's turning to extract a ledger out of a drawer. He lays it out to review it, though the text in it seems to be largely unreadable, so apparently little risk of doing so where someone else could see. "I do have one but it's... enormous. I could probably get them for you in a day or two. But credit, Miya. I don't know about credit." He picks up the brush again, twirls it in his fingers, then taps the end on the desk. "I'm already taking risks on whether I can unload whatever you bring me."

Insincerely, "Mhm, this is all just a very roundabout way of asking if you'll be my maid-of-honor, how do you feel about sherbet-colored taffeta?" No, she dismisses the whole notion in between the wink she may or may not have noticed and the ledger that she crosses the rest of the way over to the desk to look at. If he's just going to lay his business out here, Miya's going to look at it, still with her shoulders all hunched up against the talk of credit but also just blatantly nosy; it's a tough look to maintain, but she works it out. "Right, that's pretty much what I was going to say," she continues, nodding like he's totally made her point for her, quickly shaking off the nervousness now that yay! They're clearly on the same page. Only, when she says it, it's more like a positive thing: "You're already taking a risk, so." She looks from the ledger to Cad with a (enh, semi-credible) beam.

The ledger closes and Cad sits back in his chair. Really back, so the front legs tilt off the floor momentarily, putting his hands back behind his head and lacing fingers there as he regards her. "You know I don't like to pry." On matters that seems like it would be better not to know, anyway. "But I'm not going to give you anything before you tell me what you're going to pay me with." He sits forward again with a thud. "And enough about how you plan on getting it to know you really will."

Laying it on a bit thick, really trying to set that hook, Miya nods agreeably because she does know that he doesn't like to pry. "Among the many things that I appreciate about you." It continues in the rounding of her eyes, all big and brown and trustworthy. "I do business with you all the time, and I don't even know your name." She's not going to not tell him; awareness of the unreasonableness of her ask otherwise is all over the face she makes at the end, the dismissive little sniff and the shift of her posture away from the desk, arms crossed, weight pulled onto her back foot.

A soft "tsk" sound, but it doesn't seem to damage Cad's good humor. "If I took advantage of you, if you told everyone in the bazaar, I could be ruined. My business depends on my good name. Even if it isn't," he concedes, "the one I was born with." Another tap on the desk. "I'd accept collateral. With anyone else, I'd insist on collateral. Help me to help you."

"I thought it depended on dusting everything. And candles." Miya looks around for a second as if speculatively, only to wind up pulling a face with the return of her attention to Cad. "If I had collateral, I wouldn't be asking for credit," with a sigh of self-aware destitution that buys a moment to order her thoughts. Cards on the table, shrugging to be forced to deliver the line, "I found these weird eggs."

"Weird... eggs. And your plan is some sort of... quiche?" Cad is struggling, here, but look, there's a limited number of things he can possibly imagine could involve these disparate facts. His brow furrows into deep lines as he peers at her. "I do occasionally question whether you couldn't have a much nicer life, with your looks. But that lapse in judgment aside, I would have said I thought you seemed like a practical girl." Girl, fully adult woman, whatever.

Miya is watching Cad struggle without sympathy or surprise, though ignores the opening quip. "Thank you," she says cheerfully to the back-handed compliment, summoning the superficial smile to conclude, "I feel the same way about you. But here's the thing." Business, so she looks more seriously to his eyes to point out in a 'clearly thought about this ahead of time' measured set of words, "You're really not on the hook for that much. A couple of Crom ovens, right? It's not a huge ask. In return for which, you might be on the ground floor of the makings of a monumental enterprise." Off-script now, "And, if it doesn't pan out, I'll give you half a quiche."

A heavy sigh, and a momentary break in the cheer, and Cad rubs at his face before he can look at her again. "I'm only doing this out of respect for our ongoing business relationship. And if," though his tone says when, "this whole thing doesn't work out, I want them back. I've got a few people I can probably still unload them on."

Somewhere between the heavy sigh and the face-rubbing, Miya realizes how this conversation is about to turn out, so she's bobbing off a nod by the time he can look at her again, agreeing with whatever, yep. Sign here, here, and here, "I promise, if it doesn't work out, you'll get them back, almost good-as-new. You're not gonna regret it," are not just famous last words! "I'll check back in a week? I'll bring you some carrots from Keroon, they're good for your eyesight." Since he's in here doing all this detail work in the dark; it's still mystifying, even after all that.

"Usable. They need to still be usable. They don't need to be new." Nothing in this place looks new, after all. That's part of the charm. And the way Cad avoids being too noticeable. He pushes back his chair. "A week is fine. I can see, thank you, the glass is just for the fiddly bits." He takes one of the figures back to look it over again, then gives the nearest glowbasket a whack with the thing that fails to brighten it even a little. "It was brighter when I started, though. Guess that's my sign that I ought to be knocking off for the day."

Large eyes and a slow nod seriously attend the qualification while Miya repeats, "Right. Usable," and throws him a pair of thumbs-up. She keeps on nodding the same, totally agreeable way while he pretends to not be blind reasonably explains the need for the glass. Ignore the tiny, "Mhm," that she slips in there and she seems totally sold, yep. Swallowing the end of the tailing m, "You want me to lock up on my way out? Or. Whatever it is you do to secure this place?" The look she throws invites education. "Arm the traps?"

Eyebrows climb at the suggestion. "Much as I enjoy the notion of a pretty shop assistant, the notion of giving you my keys would give me an ulcer, my dear. That is your cue to depart," Cad finally clarifies just in case it should prove necessary, "unless you are actually going to buy something with the marks you don't have." But still, he smiles. "It would take far too long to train you how to handle the live tunnelsnakes, anyway. Much less the poison darts." There aren't snakes. Or darts. Probably. Who knows, really.

After one brief sputter of laughter, not a pretty outburst at all, Miya promises, "I'm going, I'm going, relax. Sorry for keeping you from all your other customers." She's clearly satisfied with the outcome of this encounter and departs with a winning bounce in her step and the cheery farewell, "Good luck with the tunnelsnake-handling, sounds like a job for an expert to me." But also pauses at the door to tack on a more authentic, "Hey thanks, though. I will literally owe you." She beams and leaves. For reals.