A handwritten label that curls around a squat jar reads:
‘Ari’s Viper recipe (final v3 v4).’
It has its own maple shelf by a rainbow beaded curtain for a door. Its thick glass holds a dark green liquid.
Ari stands at a steel workbench by the shelves. Latex gloves, which are stained green and yellow, cover his hands up to where his rolled sleeves begin.
The one and only pendant light at the centre hangs low over the bench where a copper pan simmers on a stovetop. He tilts the pan off the hob. The steam that rises from it smells of honey at first. A metallic scent catches up with it before the whole thing turns into a stench that stays.
Ari watches the liquid inside slide. It is too green for honey, too thick for tea. It looks like a rustic attempt to trap poison in syrup as its green and black threads marble through the deep amber at its core.
He grabs a toothpick from behind the hob and touches the surface with its tip. A layer of dark green covers the pick’s pointed end as he lifts it. When he moves it towards his mouth, his face scrunches up in creases. He throws the stick into a bin under the bench before he lowers the flame under the pan to medium.
His hand reaches for a pocket knife from the workbench.
He leans over to two trays that wait beside the hob. A sheet of baking paper covers one from ridge to ridge. The other has open metal boxes in the shape of mint tins lined up.
The sheet holds rows of green-black discs. They are as small as pills and arranged in neat lines.
Each disc is sleek on the surface with thin and smooth edges. As he prods one with the back of the knife, light reflects across its top, not far off a single snake scale under sunlight.
Ari balances it on the tip of the blade. “Coating holds.”
He guides it into an empty mint tin and lets it fall into it with a metallic skitter. “Good. Six more.”
The steam darkens the edges of his hair where it frizzes. A strand falls onto his brow. He quickly flips it away with the back of his hand, takes a pen from beside an open ledger by the trays, and writes:
‘Batch 10B. Coating reduced. Density acceptable. Taste unfortunate.’
A single thud rumbles out from the vent overhead, as if someone next door shut a door too hard.
The pan pops. A bubble spits green flecks across the hob. The curse he mutters is a whispered snap as he turns down the flame. His hand lunges to snatch up and out a mixing spoon from a tall metal tumbler while the liquid carries on bubbling. He stirs it in vigorous scraping swirls.
A scrabbling sound comes from near the door.
Claws click on tiles. Ari sighs at the sound before a scritching fuzzy blur of russet shoots across the floor. A squirrel climbs the leg of the workbench until it finds the surface. It skids to a stop beside Ari’s ledger.
It carries a folded scrap of paper between its teeth. Its tail gives an abrupt hitch. The gesture is as close as it gets to an annoyed exhale for a squirrel.
Ari rests the spoon on the ridge of the tray with baking paper when the squirrel drops the note on a clear patch of metal.
“I’m in the middle of a reduction.” He looks at the squirrel. “It’s not out of the norm to use the post, you know. Lick a stamp for once in your life.”
The squirrel bristles. It scampers towards a shelf behind Ari. The claws scratch across a row of empty jars. By the time the pan’s next bulging bubble pops, it squeezes its tiny self into the gap behind a stack of cardboard boxes and disappears.
Ari peels one glove loose and lays it on the bench before the back of his finger pushes the scrap open. The ink smudges at the topmost edges where the steam catches it. The handwriting is otherwise neat; the numbers are less so.
“A thousand?” The paper creases in his hand.
He leaves the scrap on the ledger, closes the book on it, and returns to the pan. “Mercy always looks like more work from this side.”
The bead curtain rustles as the scent of wine and lush fruits drifts in.
“Tell me that sticky mist is on the tasty side of wrong.”
Ari’s shoulders stiffen as he stares at the pan. “Back room, Deon. Staff only.”
“Oh, Ari.” Deon leans in the doorway with an unlit cigarette twirling between their fingers.
The partly drawn beaded curtain drapes across the dark jacquard flamboyance of a suit jacket tossed over Deon’s shoulder. “I’ve hosted three lil’ powers in this broom cupboard during a flood audit.”
They flap a hand as they step in. A dark lipstick mark on their wrist shows from under the sleeve of their purple shirt that is unbuttoned to a daring depth. “Your ‘staff only’ sign is optimistic at best.”
They stop beside the bench, hands raised in feigned surrender. “May I? Don’t tell me Health & Safety will smite me on the spot.”
“Don’t touch anything, D.” Ari gives the mixture one last stir and turns off the hob. “Try not to exist too close to the trays.”
Deon leans into the tray anyway. Patches of glitter, which cling along Deon’s hairline and the dip of their neck, catch the light. “Oh, dangerous little dry lies.” They look up at Ari. “Where’d you tuck the joy in them?”
Their nose wrinkles at the scent from the cooling discs, upper lip raised at one end. “Smells like venom had a theological disagreement with honey.”
Deon reaches past Ari’s hand for a lightly stained cloth and wipes a clear space beside him on the bench with it. They hop up to sit there and let one leg swing loose. The movement knocks Ari’s ledger askew. It wobbles at a precarious angle on the edge until Ari lunges to that side to catch it with both hands.
“There are chairs.” Ari points over his shoulder with his thumb.
“Chairs don’t convey intimacy, honeybee.” Deon leans sideways to Ari’s line of sight. “Or urgency.”
They tap the tray with a fingertip. “How goes your miracle for the traumatically inclined?”
Ari watches the pan instead of them. “Effective is a word for reports. This is maintenance. Routine’s the only thing keeping it from becoming a disaster.”
He takes half spoonfuls and pours them onto the sheeted tray. Each drop forms a fresh glimmering disc beside the others. The new pieces cool in a second, harden with a hair-thin crack across the top that mends as they finish setting.
“A thousand more.” Ari glances at the new discs in the tray. “They send a squirrel instead of a briefing and still expect compliance. I only went for a goodwill moment, you know… only for that once. Now, for some reason…” His hand raps on the ledger. “It’s my job to cover for the failures below.”
“Why not make something for yourself, sweetheart?” Deon’s gaze rolls from the pan to tray to Ari’s face. “The memos will nag at their will.”
They flick a non-existent ash from the unlit cigarette into an empty ramekin by the trays. “So. When were you planning to invite me back to your garden?”
Ari’s head snaps up. “My what.”
“Your garden.” Deon grins. “Little patch at the edge of reason that thrives even when the seasons give up. Last time you brought something from there… it tasted like summer getting away with a secret. What did you call it…” They click their fingers. “Gaspberry.”
“You called it that. It’s just a berry.” Ari gives Deon an unimpressed, flat smile. “It likes growing where autumn forgot to stop. That’s all.”
“Exactly.” Deon’s eyes light up. “Eternal non-season upstairs.” They tip their chin towards the door. “Clerks running in circles downstairs.” The back of their shoe clacks against the workbench leg. “Clocks sulking everywhere.” They roll their head around.
Deon tries to catch Ari’s eye. “Your plant ignores the whole system. That’s a vintage waiting to happen, honeydew. Let me take a crate. We make wine, pour it at the next staff gathering, watch time get tipsy. I would trade very good gossip to see Cron’s face.”
“I don’t have time for wine. I seem to only have time for… this.” Ari nods at the jar on the shelf. “The order’s suddenly already late.”
“You never have time.” Deon’s voice lowers without softening. “You keep giving it away to everyone else’s orders.”
“It’s not–” Ari stops himself.
Deon huffs as they slide off the bench and heads towards the doorway.
Their hand goes for the hook near the door where a small ring of two keys hangs. One is brass. The other is older, iron, both marked by use. A charm shaped like a bee dangles between them.
“These still open the wondrous allotment?” They lift the keyring with a fingertip.
Ari straightens. “Those are my spares.”
“Yes, that’s why I’m asking.” Deon smiles. “You trust me with souls every time you pour that sludge into a mint tin, but keys are a step too far?”
Ari walks over and reaches for the keys. His hand stops halfway before carrying on.
“Shop.” He touches the brass key. “Gate.” He taps the iron one. “You lock up behind you. The hives need… quiet. You can’t stagger in at dawn with a drum circle.”
Deon places a hand over their heart. “I will bring no drum bigger than a wine barrel.”
“That doesn’t… reassure.” A smile twitches to make an appearance on Ari’s face before he returns to the workbench.
“Fine.” Deon lifts their free hand. “I’ll bring Val to carry the crate. We snip a few handfuls of your reality-dodging berries. We leave offerings for the bees. Everyone’s a winner.”
Deon drops the keys into their other hand, and the metal gives a soft chime against the bee charm. They tuck them into their shirt’s chest pocket. “You keep your scales. I’ll see what your stubborn little plant wants to be when it grows up.”
They take half a step towards the curtain and glance back. “And Ari?”
Ari looks up at an empty point in the air straight ahead of him. “What.”
“Whatever this is…” They waggle the cigarette in a loose aim around the jar and tray. “Stop behaving like you built it alone. If it goes wrong, management will swear it fell from the sky.”
“It’s not how chemistry works.”
“It’s exactly how blame works.” Deon tips their head up and slips out.
Ari stares at the tray of glossy discs in their ordered rows.
His fingers curl on the edge of the tray of open mint tins. He slides one closer and fills it with the discs. Each one drops and skitters to an edge before coming to a rest. The seventh lands with a sound too loud for something so small.
When the tin clicks shut, he covers the top of it with his hand.
“Blame needs a recipe too.” He slides the tin to the edge of the tray. “Mine’s already on file.”