"We must mind our fingers, then," he says, quite solemnly, allowing himself to be tugged. The sea breeze ruffles at his shirt and hair, and when he looks up, squinting at the sun, it pulls at his collar as well. Susan's skirts, naturally, are nearly like a sail.

At the water, he lets the waves wash over his feet and toes as he obeys Susan's commands, searching for telltale glints before stooping and tugging them free of the sand.

"Here," he tells her, holding out a pretty pale gold shell, so thin and fine that it's nearly translucent.

"How about this?"