Clariel awoke in her own bed, her hands bandaged in clean white linen. The room was filled with soft, reddish light, and she had a moment of disorientation because the last thing she remembered was the Islet and the bright sunshine of the early morning. Now it was near dusk, the sun was low, and would soon be out of sight behind the expanse of the city to the west.

She looked at her hands. They hurt, in the way of minor wounds that are partially healed. Not a sharp pain, but an ever-present and unwelcome ache. Her lower lip hurt too, and was swollen and had bumpy lines where she’d bitten it. At least with her mouth closed, the scab wouldn’t show, she thought.

Her hurts catalogued, Clariel sat up.

Pain stabbed her in the forehead, and then spread into her eyes. But it faded after a moment, so she swung her legs over the side, put her feet into the slippers there and thought about getting out of bed.

But the thought did not translate into the deed. Clariel continued to sit, staring at something that did not belong in her bedroom and hadn’t been there before. A knee-high glass bowl with a beaten gold rim next to the door, two-thirds full of water, with two very brightly coloured fish swimming around in it.

‘Bright fish,’ said Clariel wonderingly. ‘Where did you come from?’

Her rhetorical question was answered by a knock on the door, and her father’s voice.

‘Clarrie? Can I come in?’

‘Yes,’ said Clariel. She sat up straighter and tried to remember exactly what had happened and what might be the best thing to tell her father had happened, which were not at all the same thing. ‘Do.’

Harven edged around the door as if his very presence might cause Clariel to fall back on her sickbed, and only came in a few paces before stopping, but at least he did look at his daughter rather than his own shoes.

‘I wanted to see that you are all right,’ he said. ‘I was assured you are, but to see you lying unconscious was a terrible shock! I never thought that you would be actually attacked, or that we really need the guards –’

Clariel held up her hand to stop him.

‘What … ah … actually did happen?’ she asked, hoping that he had been told something less upsetting than the truth. ‘I can’t quite remember all of it. Roban was hurt …’

‘Roban is fortunate to only have broken his wrist,’ said Harven. ‘And you … we … are fortunate that he could fight equally well with his left hand. I still find it unbelievable that a gang of unemployed labourers would attack a Goldsmith, and in daylight too! It is quite shocking. Nothing like this ever happened back in Estwael!’