‘I suppose I had better try to talk to Father,’ Clariel whispered to the sky. Unlike in the Great Forest, it was a vast and bare expanse of stars, lacking the comforting shadows cast by the mighty trees. It made her shudder to look upon the cold emptiness above, and shudder again as she dropped her gaze and looked out upon its opposite: the crowded, fettered houses jammed together, mimicking the night sky and its stars with lanterns and Charter lights in a thousand, five thousand, ten thousand windows …

Clariel went down the stairs. Even the cool, dead wood of the stair rail gave some comfort under her hand. It was not a living branch, but it still had some connection with her true home, and it had been cut and shaped by a master. One day, Clariel told herself, she too would fell trees for a house, and take axe, adze, plane and saw to timber, and fashion a dwelling in the greenwood that would enrich her spirit, not leech the life from it, like all the cold, dead stone around her now.

Harven was in his study, his elbows planted amid a pile of papers, his hands close to his face, turning something in his fingers so it caught the light from another ancient Charter light on his desk, this one a cube of translucent stone with the marks set within a central hole inside it, so it gave a softer illumination.

He turned as Clariel entered, smiled and then looked back to the tiny golden object he was studying. His daughter came close, and gazed over his shoulder at the teardrop of gold he held. It was no longer than the nail on his little finger, though a third its width.

‘It is a perfect tear,’ said Harven reverentially. ‘Burnished so cunningly it reflects light from all angles, and appears liquid, for all that it is solid metal. Even as I hold it, I fear it will run between my fingers, and splash away into nothing. And yet your mother made it quickly, and will make dozens more this night, and I … some other master goldsmith could never make such a thing, no matter how long they laboured. She has the skill of the ancients in her hands and eyes, rival even to Dropstone or Kagello the Old –’

‘She is truly gifted,’ interrupted Clariel. ‘Now, Father, I need to talk to you about something important.’

‘Perfect,’ sighed Harven. ‘As the others will be, and all together in a necklace. It will be a wonder of the age.’

‘Father!’ snapped Clariel. ‘I said I need to talk to you about something important! Very important!’

Harven reluctantly put the teardrop down. But even as he half turned in his chair to face his daughter, his eyes were dragged back to the golden object.

‘Father, I was attacked today. In the street.’