The stall was just a door-on-sawhorses table spread with a selection of fantastical shells you could never find in a marine biology textbook. Most ships avoided the rift that had recently opened offshore, but this girl and her brother were clearly more enterprising.
“How much?” I pointed at a coconut-sized blood-red shell.
It was worth ten times that. I looked skeptical.
“It’s still closed.”
“We couldn’t open it.”
I hammered it against the table until the shell splintered. From inside, I caught the glitter of something large and glowing faintly.
“I’ll give you eight,” I said. “Since it’s broken.”