Pleased, he accepts the fruit and gazes at it with a curious twist to his lips; really, who could look at an apricot and be stirred to such melancholy? He sighs airily and sets it down on his table, well away from the delicate-looking carving of a crane that is before him on his table. Nearby is a small canister of varnish, and a cloth for applying it to the wood grain.

“You’re really so very talented, Mister Fool! Where do you get the ideas for all these?”

"In my dreams." He picks up the cloth with his gloved hand and dips it into the varnish, then brings it up to apply a delicate coat of the stuff to the sweeping slope of the wooden bird's neck. Ilda receives another sly look. "Did I tell you I once rode on the back of a dragon? Into a battle, no less."