‘How rough they are from all that washing, but they’ll improve. Oily hands won’t do for my repairs.’ He lifted a clutch of pearls out of a velvet cloth. ‘Each one of these is a gift of nature, the tears of the gods, some say. Good pearls are cold to the touch, so hold and see for yourself.’ Greta felt their smooth round texture in her palm. ‘Where do they come from?’ ‘From inside the shell of an oyster or mussel. When a bit of grit gets under its shell, the oyster coats it with mother of pearl, layer after layer of nacre. She grows the pearl like a baby in the womb.’ He smiled. ‘You can open a thousand shells and never find anything better than these.’ ‘But we sell oysters on the market to eat.’ Greta was puzzled. ‘Ah, my dear, these are from special shells, unios, margarita margaritafera, unique shells growing under the fast-flowing river beds and estuaries. All over the world there are different shells and shapes producing pearls in all the colours of the rainbow.
