Clariel had assisted her father for several days each week for a long time, working on all the aspects of being a goldsmith that Jaciel ignored, which included money-changing, some minor loans and financial dealings, and the administration of the workshop, particularly the detailed accounts of the raw materials bought, how they were used, what they were made into and how much profit they returned when sold. She had liked doing this, mostly because she was left alone, and it had been quiet and peaceful in Harven’s old study, a high tower room with tall windows that gave a wonderful view of the forested hills that surrounded Estwael. It also only took her a dozen hours a week, leaving her plenty of time to wander in the green world beyond the town.

‘The Guild is sending me a senior apprentice,’ said Harven. ‘One who is suited for the … less … ah … someone with the …’

‘With an eye for numbers and good penmanship?’ suggested Clariel. She knew that her father felt diminished by his lack of talent in the actual craft of goldsmithing, though he tried to hide it. He had not made anything himself for years, probably because he could not come even close to his wife’s genius, though he always lamented how the business took up all of his time, leaving nothing for the craft.

‘Yes,’ said Harven. ‘Though I expect I will still need your help, Clarrie, only not as much.’

‘Or at all, from the sound of it,’ said Clariel. ‘How much time do I have to spend at this school?’

‘Three days a week, until the Autumn Festival,’ said Harven. ‘And it’s only mornings, from the ninth hour until noon.’

‘I suppose I can survive that,’ said Clariel. It was already several weeks past midsummer, though the days were still long and the nights warm. ‘But what happens after the Autumn Festival? Can I go home then?’

Harven looked down at the sharp-pointed, gilded toes of his red leather shoes, fine footwear for the consort of the city’s newest and probably most talented High Goldsmith. Along with the smile, looking at his shoes was a well-known telltale. He had a habit of shoe-gazing when he was about to lie to his daughter, or wanted to avoid directly answering a question.

‘Let us see what paths appear,’ he mumbled.

Clariel looked away from him, up at a lone silver gull flying towards Fish Harbour, going to join the flocks that endlessly circled and bickered there, mirroring the people below.