'May I have your attention, please! Roll up, roll up, and other such old-fashioned nonsense! Prepare to be amazed and bedazzled! Such delights as you've never seen! All for sale, for a limited time only!'

In the dim light of the mine, only a vague sound of shuffling greeted my sales call. A few knockers looked up, but otherwise returned to what they were doing.

Ang watched me deflate and nudged my knee. 'Lemme try, gwas. I speaks their language, like.'

'I didn't think you knew Cornish?'

She tutted. 'Not like that, twpsyn.'

She clambered on top of our table and stuck her thumbs into her belt. Striking a cavalier pose, she cleared her throat. 'We gots pies, lads!'

Suddenly, scrabbling and chattering filled the stope.

'That's cheating,' I told her pointedly.

She grinned at me. 'Learned it from you, I did.'

'And I'm very proud. A free pie to our first five purchases!'

I had to shout over the top of the growing hubbub. There's nothing that gets the attention of a knocker faster than a bit of pastry. I plucked a curio from the table and held it aloft.

'Our newest acquisition, the Melancholic Tonic! Need a dose of solemnity for a special occasion? Do you want to create a poetically brooding persona? It's all the rage!'

'What's in it?' said the nearest patron-in-potentia.

'A truly woeful combination. The base is mixed from the tears of a career clown; a deeply profound body is provided by the mulched works of Schopenhauer fed into a blender; and of course it's rounded off with the most vital of seasonings: the petals of a forget me not crushed into the leaves of a chamaebatia plant.'

The knocker scratched his nose. 'Sounds like a recipe fer misery, if y'ask me.'

'Yes, that's– Never mind. How about . . . this!' I pushed forward an ornate brass compass nestled in a velvet box. 'This delightful device will point the way to your heart's desire! Always know the direction of your deepest ambitions! Never be stumped by existential paralysis again!'

He prodded it, unimpressed. 'Does it point North, too?'

' . . . Yes.'

'I'll 'ave it, then. What's yer price?'

'How about a small measure of piskey dust? Just a pinch, and it's all yours!'

'Yer what?' The knocker's face screwed up in amusement.

'Piskey dust,' I repeated. 'Come now, it's like actual dust to you people, isn't it?

''avin' a laugh, you are!'

'I do have a specimen of bottled laughter around here somewhere, but that's besides the point. I'm here to trade – valuables for valuables!'

The knocker sneered at my table. 'Nothin' here as valuable as piskey dust.'

'Now that can't be true,' I persisted. 'You'd trade me a . . . a metal charm infused with the stuff, wouldn't you? All I'm asking for is the raw ingredient. Less work for you, surely!'

The knocker left in a huff. The remaining crowd became decidedly more leery as well.

Branok sidled up to the table, cleaning his pipe on his waistcoat. 'Wouldn'a be askin' fer piskey dust, if I were you.'

'Why not? Seems like a reasonable proposition to me.'

'Ain't, though.'

'I don't see what's so–'

'Listen mate, you'll start offendin' if yer carry on so,' Branok said. 'S'like askin' a farrier to gi' you all his iron.'

'But the thing is, you see, I'm not asking for all of it, am I? Just a . . . sizeable measure.'

'What fer? We gots other magicks to trade.'

Ang piped up with a welcome note of support. 'Me partner has a nose for novelties, like. Piskey dust be useless to him, but he wants it 'cuz no one else has it. We're not out to steal your own trade,' she added shrewdly. 'I don't know the workin's of it, neither. But t'have some o' your fine dust in our stock, well . . . we'd be a right talking point everywhere we go. And to all them asking us where we found such treasure, we could proudly say 'twas knockers what give it us. What a decent an' upright folk, I'd say, such as worth doing plenty o' business with. Surely worth travellin' miles to find those knockers and pay good money to yeself.'

I wanted to applaud. I couldn't have hoped for a better load of fallacious flattery from Ang. Branok, if not entirely convinced, certainly seemed to be listening. It's true that money talks, and it always has something interesting to say.

Branok's eyes fell back to his pipe. 'Maybe them folks could come to learn the name of Merouda in relation to the great works of knockers. What a fine thing that would be, eh?'

'She'd be at the forefront o' my mind, that's fer sure,' Ang said.

'Now, I ain't offering you nuthin', understand? But if you were to happen upon some abandoned piskey dust . . . I s'pose none could blame yer for helping yeselves to a portion. Provided you left plenty behind for knockers still, aye?'

I leaned in hungrily. 'Mistakes do happen. Supplies left unguarded, that kind of thing.'

'Oh, I wouldn't call this lot unguarded.' Branok lifted the pipe to his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. 'Yer might even say it's so well guarded that it's not being of any use to knockers right now.'

'I see. Branok, are we talking about piskey dust which is not, in fact, in your current possession?'

'Thassit.'

I sighed. 'All right. What do we need to do?'

'We stealin' again?' Ang said uneasily.

Branok arched an eyebrow in her direction. 'Surely I ain't doing business with thieves. This ain't theft, anyhow. Can't steal a thing from someone it don't belong to in the first place.'

'I quite agree,' I chipped in.

'What about them piskies it belonged to in the first place?' Ang said drily.

Branok shrugged. 'Gorn, in't they. Ain't too many piskies left round these parts since all the iron went up. Some still live in the hills, as far away from people as they can get. But most left, and left their piskey glens behind, full o' that precious dust of theirs. You've seen one, at Mên-an-Tol. We just moved in after they left. There's more like it all round here.'

'Aha. And I expect other things may have moved into those,' I said.

'Right.'

'I imagine we can assist with a neighbourhood relocation project. Any knowledge of the current . . . tenants?'

Branok smiled without any humour. 'A Green Man, it be.'

'Aha. I suspect I can surmise why you haven't handled this yourself.' I clapped my hands together. 'But I'm sure we'll manage. It's a deal, Branok.'

'No deal here,' he said idly. 'I'm just givin' you a location. Up to you what yer do wi' it.'

'And we're very grateful,' I said brightly.

He strolled away, leaving behind a detailed map scrawled on my totally authentic copy of the Shroud of Turin.

* * *

Author's Note

Welcome back, folks! Thanks for waiting while I straightened a few things out.

This section was a lot of fun to write - I feel like we haven't seen Hansard's proper sales patter in a while, and now Ang's getting in on the fun too. The 'Melancholic Tonic' that features here is the invention of one of our competition winners from the Season One Book Launch party last September. We'll be seeing the other winning entries pop up later in the series!

I'm also trying to cut down on my use of Cornish/knocker dialect going forward. Do point out if dialogue isn't making sense, or if the words are simply grating on you. We're aiming for it to be smooth as well as characterful. :P