The wind died and the tides came in and stayed in.

“Pretty girl, pretty, pretty,” said Memnon, large of thew and small of brain, and stroked Genia’s hair gently.

“Yes, thank you,” she said, and swatted at his hand.

“Pretty, pretty.”

“I’m working, what do you want?”

“See, see. See.” He put his fist in her hands, square tipped fingers curled into his palm.

Genia sighed. “Okay. Okay. Open. What have you got? Open your hand.” She tugged at his fingers until they straightened out and laid flat against her thigh. In his palm was a coil of bright stones, lapis lazuli, amethysts, rose quartz, strung together on a little bit of silver wire.

“I made,” he said. “I. They showed me. Careful, careful.”

For a moment it all seemed pointless. “Thank you. Thank you, Memnon, it’s very nice.” He hugged her, awkward and enthusiastic and sudden. “Why don’t you go draw? Here, here, draw this.” She closed his hand on the stones. “Draw that for me. Please?”

The windows were open to catch a breeze that never came. As Memnon climbed into his loft, the curtains stirred behind him, fluttered in and out, in and out, like breathing.