Here is a brand new snippet, written...just now. So, yeah, rough and may not even survive. That is the uncertain fate of first drafts, though, n'est-ce pas?
Tiqao fitted a lid over the box and tapped a chime hanging from the side of his worktable.
Behind him, the shell-strung curtain of jute strings parted, and a boy who had Tiqao’s deep-set eyes popped through. Without being told, the boy scooped up the box and whisked around the table, wiggling like a fish between Sola and the overflowing shelves.
Lifting a hand as if to pull the boy into a more decorous pace, Tiqao said, “Take it to—”
“I know, Papaa!” The door to the street clacked shut behind him.
Tiqao rapped his knuckles on the table and shook a gnarled finger at Sola. “The young do not always know what they think they know.”