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There’s exactly one of exactly what you want, in the corner, on a shelf, half-wrapped in dirty cloth.

“Oh my God,” she says, “how old is this?  And still intact?”

“Please don’t touch,” smiles the stallkeeper, “the wax is delicate. And I’m afraid it’s spoken for…”

“I’ll beat their offer,” says Candle.  “Two thousand? Two five?”

“Closer to five.”


“Four fifty.”

“Three six.”


“Three seventy-five.”

“Three eighty?”

“Three seventy-five.”

“Sold!” says the stallkeeper.  “I’ll take it.”

Confused, Candle shakes hands and sits on the shelf.  The cloth is cool and soft around her.


Is that really her name?