Rory
The three tremulous chimes of the bell above the shop door crack into my quiet moment of peace. I return my teacup to its saucer and rise, bracing myself for the performance of politeness.
My horns lead the way as I turn sideways, ducking through the doorway. “Welcome to Taurean Teapots and Tureens,” I say, dropping my voice two full octaves below my natural register so it comes out soft and warm as fleece.
The customer—a small, older woman—hovers at the entrance, taking in the place with the eyes of someone who gets the same joy from delicately painted porcelain that I do. But then she sees me.
The sight of me emerging from the back room nearly sends her straight back outside: her eyes widen, she clutches her purse, and her body turns reflexively toward the door.
She doesn’t bolt, though. Either fear has frozen her in place, or deeply ingrained, socially enforced manners have overridden her natural instincts.
I’d say I was used to this type of reaction, but that’d be a lie.
I plaster on the smile I rehearse continuously in the mirror. “If you’ve got questions about tableware, serveware, or teaware, I’m where you can get answers,” I say, emphasizing ‘where’ with a cheesy smirk.
The dorky wordplay usually helps put people at ease, but not this one. She’s still petrified—frozen as if she were stoneware in my store and I were a descendant of Medusa, not Asterius.
She glances at my horns—most do—then at the door.
I fold my hands together and pull my shoulders inward, reducing my overall size. Keep the smile easy, posture loose—just like Mother taught you: ‘Humans find you less threatening when you smile. But not too much, Rory! Don’t look like you’re going to eat them!’
Slowly, I retreat behind the counter. No sudden moves.
I avert my eyes. “May I help you find anything?” I ask, flipping up my tail and sinking to the stool.
‘Don’t loom. Put obstacles between you and the human.’
“Queen’s Rose,” she chokes out so quietly I almost don’t hear it.
“Oh, yes, ma’am. You can find most of the Royal Standard teapots over there. If you’re looking for Erphila Queen’s Rose, those are over here,” I say, gesturing slowly toward them.
It’s probably not a coincidence that she chooses the teapots furthest from me—the Royal Standard—to hurry to.
I try to let her browse in peace; however, my presence is making that difficult. She pretends to inspect the arrangement of china, but really, she’s more focused on me. She eyes me warily and won’t turn her back to me.
She thinks I’m going to charge her. I’ve never charged anyone in my life.
I remain seated and stare forward—not at her—and resist the urge to tap my hoof.
I tense my muscles to maintain a posture that, while incredibly uncomfortable, projects an air of casual, non-chargy, breeziness.
I maintain the smile—also uncomfortable—that’s my only shield against the obliterating gaze of strangers.
The “glaze,” as I like to call it. Internally. I’d never say that out loud.
Eventually, she disappears down an aisle, and I can drop the smile and sit more naturally, but my anxiety is still present.
In the same way she wants to keep her eyes on me, I want to keep my eyes on her.
The idea of her walking amongst my fragile herd of breakable beauties unmonitored is almost too much to bear.
They need me. They need my protection. They need my guard.
I focus on the crockery directly in front of me and count. It helps. Counting always does.
I’m lost in the deep blue sea of Cloisello when the woman reappears.
Her eyes dart at my horns, then back down to my hands that are carefully folded on the countertop. Something flickers across her face, maybe a grim sort of bravery, maybe a challenge, maybe disbelief, but when she asks, “You wouldn’t happen to have any Elizabeth Roses?” it feels like a test.
But it’s a test I am prepared to take. “Yes, I do,” I say. “Would you like me to show you?”
She nods, clutching her purse like it’s a crucifix—which doesn’t ward off minotaurs, by the way.
I move carefully into the Aynsley aisle, hunched, chin tucked like a guilty priest, angling my body so my horns don’t decapitate a teapot with a careless turn.
When I reach the shelf, I gently draw an Elizabeth Rose teapot down with two fingers.
I don’t approach her. Instead, I rotate it in the light so she can see the hand-painted roses and the authenticity stamp.
She smiles politely and says, “It’s lovely,” in a voice that is steadier, but weak with disappointment.
Not quite what she wants…
“I do have a few Queen’s Messengers at the counter, if that’s closer to what you’re looking for.”
Her face lights up, and she nods enthusiastically.
I squeeze past her and make my way to the front of the store.
She follows me, less fearful, but maintaining a distance between us that’s greater than my horn span.
I retrieve a Royal Albert Queen’s Messenger teapot from behind the counter, tip the pot onto a felt-lined tray, then step as far back as the space allows.
She looks at the teapot with a reverence that tells me she and I could be great friends if she were not a small, frail human and I were not a big, scary minotaur.
“May I?” she asks, holding her hands close to her chest, not letting herself reach out, as if the act of teapot touching is taboo.
“Of course,” I say.
With deliberate, careful slowness, she wraps her hands around the teapot and lifts it close to her face, cradling it the way one would cradle a baby chicken.
Her weariness melts around her—her focus now fully on protecting this beautiful teapot.
For a brief moment, I suspect she may squee in delight.
But she controls herself and rocks it slightly, scrutinizing it, weighing the history of every cup of tea ever poured from it.
I live for these moments—when people see what I see: a beautiful thing worthy of protection. It’s usually when they finally see me for who I am: a sentry of ceramics, guarding his shop’s labyrinth and protecting his herd of fine china.
She releases a contented hum as she inspects the flower finial on the lid and exclaims, “Oh! It’s lovely.”
Success.
I lean closer, testing her comfort with me, and lower my voice conspiratorially. “I also have a Herend Queen Victoria with rose detailing in the back. Would you like to see it?”
She rewards me with a real smile, and now the two of us are the best of friends. “Oh, my! Really!? I would love to see it!”
I slip into the back room, ensuring I am out of sight before I allow myself to breathe and really take up space.
I stretch and release the tension in my shoulders, then rub the ever-present ache.
My neck and shoulders always hurt—heavy is the head that wears these horns—but it’s worse on customer-heavy days like today.
To say I wear my anxiety in my shoulders is an understatement emphasized by the posture of supplication I hold around humans.
I roll my neck, allowing my horn to graze the wall, leaving a tally mark of sorts in its wake.
The tea I was drinking earlier has gone cold, but I use it to wash down some ibuprofen.
I’ve probably spent too much time back here already, so I stretch my shoulders one last time before I find the Herend Queen Victoria. It’s boxed, swaddled in soft cloth and acid-free paper.
I unwrap the teapot, cooing, “Good morning, lovely,” and handling it with the same gentleness I would if I were waking a newborn.
I tenderly return its lid and indulge in a moment of admiration.
I let myself bask in its beauty and release a little happy snuffle, before re-righting my posture and face—making myself “presentable” again.
I tiphoove to the counter, supporting the Queen Victoria teapot against my chest and ensuring the lid doesn’t jostle too much.
The woman has returned the Queen’s Messenger teapot to the tray and is running a finger over its rim. Her focus is total, and her mouth purses in a way that suggests deep nostalgia or sadness. I set the Herend Queen Victoria teapot down and try not to startle her.
She startles anyway. “Oh! Thank you.”
I step back. “You’re very welcome.”
I catch myself holding my breath as she admires the Queen Victoria teapot. In an attempt to ground myself, I flick a cleaning cloth from my pocket and remove my glasses to busy myself with the task of cleaning them.
The world’s edges soften as it drops instantly into its usual dull blur of yellow-browns, blues, and grays. The Queen Victoria’s red rose is now nearly indistinguishable in color from its gold trim—it hides its reds, greens, and fine-line detailing from my natural eyes.
It’s calming: this reduction of stimuli, along with the gentle motion of polishing my already spotless spectacles. It’s methodical. It’s something small I can control.
“Take your time,” I murmur to the woman, gently buffing one lens. “No rush at all.”
I polish slowly as she continues to admire the teapot.
The bell above the door rings—three sharp notes that slice through my calm like thrown knives.
I straighten automatically to launch my usual greeting—
But I forget how to exist.
A scent. Sharp. Sweet. Warm. Summer-ripe strawberries crushed under sunlight. Black pepper. Honeysuckle. Clean skin. Something electric underneath, like the air right before a thunderstorm. It curls through the porcelain aisles and wraps straight around my spine.
If the bell’s chime were a knife, then this scent would be shrapnel.