Then silence.

“You might save me, Rico,” she said. “You might save me yet.”

She lifted herself out of the chair and began to scoop up her belongings. She hadn’t laughed like that for a long time. She couldn’t remember a time when she had truly laughed. She was still laughing when she went to the radio and tuned in CBC again, volume low.

“So long, bird.”

“Save me!” Rico shouted, in his beaky, birdy voice. And abruptly turned his back.

As she was letting herself out through the front door, she heard him laughing like a parrot maniac in a voice that sounded uncomfortably like her own.

October

Stories, First-Hand

TOM

A side chair appeared in the shop. Tom knew Allam had carried it in because Allam was the only other person to know where the extra key was stowed. He had mentioned previously that he might bring in something Tom would find interesting.

Tom inspected the piece and understood that this was not just any chair. Victorian or perhaps pre-Victorian, cane seat, papier mâché backrest, wooden legs, unusual beauty. Slight scarring at the rear of the backrest. Tom liked the scars, part of the provenance. A touch of expert repair work had been carried out to reinforce the back. This long-ago repair had been supplemented by a thickness of ancient leather, which added extra support. The most striking features of the chair were feather-like designs within the curves, inlaid mother-of-pearl, highlights of gold leaf, delicate hand-painted leaves and flowers—the whole being lacquered, or “japanned.” The chair was solid, fabulous. Tom immediately thought of a couple who might be interested: a man and woman who loved objects from the Victorian era, that long period of history that spanned so much of the nineteenth century. The same couple often purchased mercury glass, as well as vinaigrettes—each with a special hallmark—from the Georgian period, the 1830s. Those small secret boxes fit tidily into the palm and were fashioned from sterling silver, with a fine layer of gold inside to keep the interior surface from corroding. Plain on the outside, beautifully intricate on the inside, with a pierced grille under which tiny pieces of scented sea sponge had once been placed. Tom seldom came across vinaigrettes, but when he did, he acquired them for the same two collectors. As for the papier mâché chair, he’d never seen one of this quality except in photos.

Allam came in moments after Tom turned the Open sign on the shop door.

“You have the chair,” said Allam, a new edge of propriety in his voice. “A work of beauty, yes?”

“But you haven’t paid for it, surely?”

“Not yet, Toe-mas. If you find a customer, we have an arrangement? I pay my source, you pay a commission—is that what you say? The owner told me the chair could come here to your shop. You are trusted in the town.”

“Indeed. But where . . . ?”