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? Â 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. Â “Two thousand? Two five?”
“Closer to five.”
“Three.”
“Four fifty.”
“Three six.”
“Four.”
“Three seventy-five.”
“Three eighty?”
“Three seventy-five.”
“Sold!” says the stallkeeper. Â “I’ll take it.”
Confused, Candle shakes hands and sits on the shelf. Â The cloth is cool and soft around her.
Wait.
Is that really her name?