CHAPTER ONE “Can I help you find something, dear?” she asks, from atop a spindly-legged stool. Short and squat, she hooks her truncated limbs over the highest set of rungs. Her knitting flows forth onto the hard packed dirt floor, a pink woollen waterfall cascading over her abundant belly. “No, thank you, ” I reply, continuing to browse. I hate questions like this. It makes all the fine, lightly browned hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I hate them almost as much as I hate help, particularly from strangers. “I’m just looking.” “Well, I can see that, ” she says, “but what is it you’re looking for?” She plucks a pair of glasses from her nose and rests them on her floral-covered bosom. She smoothes out her bird’s nest mane of yellowish-white hair, expertly whipping it into a bun and securing it with a spare needle. “You can’t find what you want if you don’t know what you need.” I murmur my assent, but don’t meet her gaze. I don’t want to encourage the press of her familiarity, and I silently curse myself for leaving my visit so late. Earlier, the aisles of the Flea Market would have been full of prospective buyers; but, at this hour, the crowds have thinned considerably. She smells a sale and launches herself in my direction. “As you can see, ” she says, “I’ve got something for everyone, dear. All kinds of nice things.” Mm-hmm. She does – not necessarily nice – but things nonetheless. Her kick-stand table is piled high with brooches, books, buttons and other bric-a-brac – a strange assortment of items that have even less charm than they do worth. However, as I glance over her wares, I’m drawn to one piece in particular – a cameo pendant – a softly pearled profile set in calcified curls. I lift it from the table, running my fingers over the slightly raised image. It reads like Braille, giving rise to a memory so old I almost have to blow the dust from it. My Nana gave my sister a pendant very much like this once. It was Rachel’s birthday. She was thirteen and wore the piece with a budding womanly pride. I was five and filled with childishness and envy. She guarded it as though it were the Crown Jewels – unclasping it and placing it carefully on her nightstand each evening before she went to bed. I was forbidden from touching it. She said I’d dirty it – the filigreed face – and that I was too young to understand. She was wrong. She didn’t understand. All I wanted to do was hold it. One morning, I took it without asking, pocketing the pendant before kindergarten for Show-and-Tell. I knew it wasn’t mine to either show or tell, but I didn’t care. The secret weight of its presence in my pocket made me feel like someone special – the transporter of important goods – even if they weren’t mine. Naturally, I later lost it in a schoolyard game of hide-and-go-seek. Rachel was livid, and nothing could convince her that I wasn’t the guilty culprit. Of course, I lied, and even constructed a paperclip chain to replace it; however, this act of contrition only bought me clemency from my parents. Rachel accepted the offering – she had no choice – but I don’t think she ever quite believed me, nor forgave me.