"Hmmm, good point," Lucy agreed. "We live on a flying rock held up by balloons. I'm prepared to believe almost anything by this point."
She picked up a tiny sandstone sculpture of a dragon, admiring its detail. The artist had managed to made the dragon look both sleepy and watchful, its body curled up lazily with one eye closed. The other eye, however, was wide open and its ears were perked up alertly.
"You know, it's odd. There's this magpie's nest of possessions up here, but there hasn't been anything that I'd really call personal. No old socks, no diaries, no half-finished sketches or broken hairbrushes. Nothing that's been used. It's all . . . collectable, not personal."