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killing young boys.”
    “So is the Irish pirate.”
    “Yes, but he was never particularly skilled at it, even in his best pirate days. Poor sod never knew what he was on about.” Starkly leaned in toward Paul and squinted at him. “Do I know you, young sir?”
    “You might. I’m not sure.” Paul tilted his head, trying to look cocky. “I think I may be The Boy. Do you think I am? Do I look anything like him?”
    “No,” said Starkly dismissively, but then he took a second look. “Well…maybe a little. Around the nose, I think. Yes, the nose is a bit evocative of The Boy. So what do you want?”
    “I want to go to the Anyplace.”
    “Oh, do you.” Starkly made a face of nearly unveiled disgust. “And why do you want to do that? To fly like The Boy? To harass and kill perfectly noble pirates? To cavort like a heathen and never grow up and have no care in the world?”
    “No. To find a lost girl, if there be any, and bring her home so my mother can have a little daughter and not be so angry all the time since my previous little sister vanished from her crib, never to return.”
    Starkly took all this in, and something in his look and demeanor changed. It was far too subtle for Paul to note, but since we are standing just outside and slightly to the left of the situation, we can perceive what Paul cannot.
    “Well, I certainly don’t know what to tell you. Why in the world did the Irishman send you here?” When Paul merely shrugged in response, Starkly shook his head with the air of one greatly put upon. “Well, feel free to look about. If you find anything you think can be of help to you, we’ll discuss price.”
    “I don’t have any money,” said Paul.
    “Best not to tell me that,” Starkly said, “because now I have to throw you out. On second thought, I won’t do it myself. I’ll have to find someone else to do it. Hang on.” Starkly promptly walked into the curtained-off back area, leaving Paul alone in the shop.
    Nervous, his heart pounding, Paul began sifting through the many shelves, looking for he didn’t know what. A book, perhaps, or a map or a magic wand or secret words scribbled down upon a piece of paper, written in an ancient tongue that would grant Paul special powers when read aloud. Something, anything, that would be of use to him. All he could find, however, was miscellaneous bric-a-brac, none of which appeared to serve any useful function and all of which seemed to be there solely for the purpose of making him have to look at it all.
    His eye almost went right past something as he scanned the bottom shelf in the farthest corner of the room. But then his gaze was drawn back to it, as if something had tossed out a fishing line, snared his eyelid, and drawn him irresistibly back to the place he had initially overlooked. On his hands and knees, he leaned forward, craning his neck around so that he could make out whatever it was more clearly. Limited in his ability to do so, he reached back and pulled the dust-enshrouded object from its hiding place.
    It was a detailed wood carving, a statue about the size of the palm of his hand. At least he thought it was a wood statue. The material felt odd and looked even stranger. More “mummified” than carved, really. Yes, that had to be it. It was a representation of an Egyptian mummy, produced through some marvelously clever means. It was a female, definitely, because her curves were in the right places. She was upright, her hands crisscrossed upon her breast in the near universal depiction of one at her final rest. Her eyes were closed in solemn slumber. Intriguingly, she had a pair of wings upon her back. It was difficult to tell what they would have been like in life, for they were as solid and unmoving as the rest of her. She was clad in a skeleton leaf, or at least the remains of one, and she was a bit rounder in the hips than most women preferred—which was not something that Paul noticed, being a boy and not understanding