*

A fog had rolled up river from the coast, carrying with it distant smells of ash and the sound of running water that I found sinister. The night-children of Felden Street felt differently: some spread their arms like gulls and flew off into the lamp-lit fog. Others played hide-and-seek. One girl snatched at a wisp, as if she might catch and keep and study this thing she did not understand. I strode past them, head and hat lowered against the smoky tide, trying to ignore the damp heat of the night.

The fog had muted the city, once I was beyond the streets deemed suitable for children, and I enjoyed a quiet, uninterrupted journey.

I entered Larn & Gale’s Curiosities, and both Gloria Larn and Wendeline Gale looked up from their large, cluttered counter. The bell above my head waggled silently, the clapper removed long ago; that they had kept the bell despite this went some way to describe the women, and how they conducted their business.

‘Do you have them?’ I said, our business relationship being beyond the need for pleasantries.

‘Indeed. He returned early this week.’ Gloria – the broader of the couple – withdrew a wide drawer from beneath the counter. ‘We haven’t yet unpacked it all.’ She set the drawer down carefully. My breath caught and I tried to look everywhere at once, taking all the blown eggs in, the next more exciting than the last.

‘So many,’ I said.

‘And yet, still birds in the sky.’ Wendeline gestured to the stuffed peregrines and falcons mounted above her.

I put on a soft felt glove and, with appropriate reverence, picked up a bespeckled guillemot egg. The deep, lustrous grey was veined and dotted in a dazzlingly complex manner. The single blow-hole was immaculate and unobtrusive, as were the two marks on the bottom – the functional LG of the seller and the more ornate C of the nester.

‘He returned this week?’ I said, still staring at the egg. ‘Why wasn’t I sent for?’

‘Did you not see our smoke signal, Inspector?’

The couple chuckled at their gentle joking, but in truth I was lucky not to find Mr Coller’s hoard plundered to the same extent as the nests he himself pursued. I replaced the grey guillemot, glancing over its whiter brethren; these interested me less, though I couldn’t say why. Many collectors preferred the stark white, but I found it jarring. I had discussed as much with Wendeline, on occasion, and she claimed it was a common divide between night and day collectors, but Gloria struggled to support such a simple generalisation.

‘And when will Mr Coller be leaving again?’ I said, picking up a molten-looking avocet.

Gloria shrugged. ‘Soon, I shouldn’t doubt. He’ll want to make the most of the season, as will we all.’

The rest of the avocet clutch were not quite as vivid, but I had been waiting for just the right set to add to my collection. I counted once, then counted again to be sure.