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Ish,” she said with a mischievous expression, “Not deaf.”
    “You’re gonna be a bitch to work for! I just know it,” I said in mock dismay.
    “I’ve been called much, much worse.”
    As we were walking along, a display of small, wooden carvings caught my eye and I steered Brill that way. A balding man with a long, sharp nose wearing what seemed to be homespun sat on a tall stool behind the table. Unlike most vendors in the flea market, he made no attempt to call attention to his wares. Brill and I walked up to the table and leaned over to get a better look. Made from a pale gray wood—gnarled and weathered—the figures were exquisitely crafted and finished with a velvety oil that brought out the natural grain of the wood. He must have had dozens of them representing a wide range of fish, animals, and birds. Each contained an inlaid bit of shell shaped like a heart on its chest.
    “What are these?” I asked, having to work hard to look up from the figures.
    He smiled and laugh lines crinkled the corners of his eyes. “Why, they’re wooden sculptures, my boy. What do they look like?”
    I saw Brill’s eyes flicker from one figure to another. She examined the detail and the textures, certainly, but it almost seemed like she was searching for one item in particular.
    “Yes,” I agreed. “I can see they’re wooden sculptures, and they are absolutely exquisite. But…what are they? What kind of wood is this?”
    He smiled again. His seamed and weathered skin made him appear carved from wood himself. “The wood is windrift, and ’tis a gift from the sea, which we gather on the beaches. The larger bits we burn for fuel. Some we carve.”
    “And the hearts?”
    “Ah, the hearts are bits of shell. The sea provides those as well.”
    “These are not just souvenirs. They have some meaning. Can you tell us?”
    He raised his eyebrows in amusement at this. “You see what you see, young sir. I am but a simple carver of shapes.”
    As stall banter, his speech felt unusual. Most craftsmen wanted to prattle on to make their wares more appealing but I had to drag everything out of this guy. Maybe he was smarter than I thought because he was spectacularly effective at securing my attention. I could not get it out of my head that the figures were more than mere carvings. Perhaps I projected my own feelings onto them. I could not shake the feeling. To begin with, the carving was exquisite and the inlay work, flawless. The shapes emerged from the wood like they were always there hidden below the surface, and the carver merely revealed them.
    “Good sir, I mean no offense,” I answered him formally, playing along with his script. “But I’m a simple lad and not familiar with your customs. Are they religious icons? Good luck charms? These seem like more than merely shapes.” I glanced at Brill again but she seemed oblivious to our conversation as she intently examined the figures.
    The man relented then and admitted, “These are but the shapes in the windrift and shells of the sea. My family has been making them for decades, my father and his father before him. We collect the windrift and shells and carve them as the mood strike us. They bear no significance other than the love we have for the sea.”
    His words seemed at once sincere and not completely true. As I was about to press him on the matter, Brill reached out and plucked a figure from the table. It was a heron, about six centimeters tall, with a delicately formed neck and long legs. The carving had a bit of rich purple shell as the heart. “How much?” she asked.
    “All the pieces on the table are ten creds,” he said. “That’s the price.”
    She placed the heron back on the table. “It’s lovely, but…no, thank you.”
    We took our leave then, but as I was walking away, I noted the booth number.
    A few meters down the aisle, we turned to each other. “What was that about?” Brill asked.
    I shook my head. “I’m not sure, but we need to