Early Saturday morning, Kun Ya and Noi gathered the painted umbrellas and loaded them into the basket of the tricycle. Noi noticed that Kun Ya added her butterfly umbrella to the stack.

“Will we sell it, then?” she asked shyly.

“Why not?” Kun Ya asked. “It’s beautiful.”

Noi felt a sudden longing to keep the umbrella. After all, the butterfly was the first thing she’d painted other than leaves.

Kun Ya must have understood what she was thinking. “Don’t worry, little daughter, there’s plenty more where that came from. Here”— she touched the area over Noi’s heart —“and here.” She touched Noi’s hands.

Noi felt a quick flush of warmth. She wanted Kun Ya to say more, but she had already mounted the tricycle and was pedaling away.

“Ting won’t be going with us anymore, will she?” Noi called out.

“I’m afraid not, Noi. Now she has to work on Saturdays.”

Sadness passed over Noi like a cool wind.

Once again, Noi ran alongside Kun Ya as she rode. Whenever the road went downhill, Noi put her feet on the back step of the tricycle and caught a lift as the samlaw coasted.

As they approached the tourist market, they reached the main highway. It was always clogged with a snarl of trucks and buses. Curls of black smoke rose and mingled together to form a haze. Noi covered her ears against the roar.

People pedaled bicycles or tricycles like their own, or rode in the beds of small trucks. The tourists arrived in big buses or in cars.

Some of the tourists were Thais from Bangkok. Others came from Japan. But the market was held mostly for the farangs from Europe and America. Each Saturday, Noi tried hard not to stare at these tall people with round eyes and light hair and skin.

Monks also wandered through the market, their rubber sandals clicking against their heels.

Kun Ya and Noi pushed the tricycle into the narrow lane of the market. They passed under the canvas awning that spread over the market to keep out the sun and, in the rainy season, the rain. Alongside the lanes were booths of things for sale: carved wooden elephants and water buffalo, silver bowls engraved with classic Thai designs, elephant bells, woven napkins and pillowcases, kites made of bamboo and paper, bamboo baskets, rolls of fluttering silk, landscapes embroidered with colorful yarn, Thai swords in sheaths. Several booths sold umbrellas, but none were as finely painted as Kun Ya’s.

As Kun Ya wheeled the tricycle through the market with Noi following, women called out to her. “Sell your umbrellas here today,” or “We’ll give you the best price.”

But Kun Ya just laughed at the teasing. For many years, she’d sold her umbrellas only to Mr. Poonsub.

When they got to Mr. Poonsub’s booth, Noi greeted him: “Sawasdee.” She bowed deeply, because Mr. Poonsub was almost as old as Kun Ya. His short, round fingers were heavy with silver rings.

“Sawasdee.” Mr. Poonsub bent low to Kun Ya and glanced toward Noi.

As Kun Ya and Noi took the umbrellas from the basket, Mr. Poonsub opened them one by one, sometimes saying nothing, sometimes exclaiming. When he got to the green child’s umbrella, Noi held her breath. But he barely opened it and seemed to accept it like all the others. After he had examined all of the umbrellas, he counted paper money and ten-baht coins into Kun Ya’s open hands.

At a stand, Kun Ya bought Noi a cup of coconut-flavored drink. Noi sipped it carefully as they walked, letting the slippery pieces of coconut glide into her mouth. She liked to suck the sweetness out before swallowing.

At home, Kun Ya gave ten baht to Noi and most of the paper money to Kun Mere. Kun Ya always kept a few notes for herself.

Noi opened the lid of a tiny wooden box and placed the ten-baht coin inside with the others.