locket: Mary wore it under her clothes, but pulled it out to show Margaret whenever they discussed Colonel Birch It contained a lock of his thick hair Molly Anning sucked at her tea as if she were drinking beer “And he hasn’t written since he left So I wrote him That’s where I need your help.” She reached into the pocket of an old coat she wore—it had probably been Richard Anning’s—and pulled out a letter, folded and sealed “I already wrote it, but I don’t know if it’ll reach him like this It would if it were going to a place like Lyme, but London be that much bigger Do you know where he lives?” Molly Anning thrust the letter at me “Colonel Thomas Birch, London” was written on the outside “What have you said in the letter?” “Asked him for money for Mary’s services.” “You didn’t mention—marriage?” Molly Anning frowned “Why would I do that? I’m no fool Besides, that be for him to say, not me I did wonder about the locket, but then there’s no letter, so…” She shook her head as if to rid it of a silly notion like marriage, and returned to the safer topic of payment for services rendered “He owes us not only for all the time he took Mary away from hunting curies, but for the loss now That be the other thing I wanted to say to you, Miss Philpot Mary’s not finding curies It were bad enough this summer that she give everything she found to the Colonel But since he went she ain’t found anything Oh, she goes upon beach every day, but she don’t bring back curies When I ask her why not she says there’s nothing to find Times I go with her, just to see, and what I see is that something’s changed about her.” I had noticed it too when I was out with Mary She seemed less able to concentrate I would look up and catch her eyes wandering over the horizon or across the outline of Golden Cap or the distant hump of Portland, and knew her mind was on Colonel Birch rather than on fossils When I questioned her she simply said, “I haven’t got the eye today.” I knew what it was: Mary had found something to care about other than the bones on the beach “What can we to get her finding curies again, Miss Philpot?” Molly Anning said, running her hands over her lap to smooth out her worn skirt “That’s what I come to ask—that and how to get the letter to Colonel Birch I thought if I wrote and he sent money, that would make Mary happy and she would do better upon beach.” She paused “I’ve wrote plenty of begging letters these last years—they take their time paying up at the British Museum—but I never thought I would have to write one to a gentleman like Colonel Birch.” She took up her cup and gulped the rest of her tea I suspect she was thinking about him kissing her hand, and cursing herself for being taken in