“It almost looks like the Salamander had grabbed you by the wrist,” Betaan said with a careless laugh.

Storm held her breath, quelling a sudden desire to shiver. Did the Pact know even that horrible secret? But no, it had been meant as a joke. Storm glanced at the stallholder, who was still staring at her intently. The monkey had vanished.

“Gentle daughters of the Pact!” cried the old woman suddenly. “Draw near and I shall entertain you with a special magic, as thanks for your purchase.” She addressed Betaan and Mer, but darted a sideways glance at Storm that stirred the hairs on the back of her neck. Smiths work with fire! warned her mind-voice.

Betaan laughed, grabbed Storm and Mer by the hands and pulled them forward. “A show! Yes. Give us a show! Are you a witch, old woman? You look like one, to be sure!”

“Don’t be rude, Betta!” Mer said, her voice light and careless.

Storm stared at the other girls, deeply shocked. Those who have lived to old age should be honoured, no matter their station in life! It was on the tip of her tongue to say so when Betaan’s gasp of amazement made her glance at the stallholder.

The old woman stood behind her table, a coil of fine wire before her, her hands held out, gnarled fingers waving over the metal.

One end of the gold wire had risen into the air and was twisting and turning like a blind worm. It twisted and coiled, turning back on itself, in and out, knotting and twining until a tiny golden lotus flower stood before them, its circlet of pointed petals supported by a stem of braided gold.

“For you, Mistress!” The old woman snipped the flower stem from the remaining coil of wire and held the trinket out to Betaan, who cupped it in her hands greedily. Even more quickly, a second flower rose from the table and was handed to Mer.

“And for you,” said the old woman, looking into Storm’s eyes. “Something a bit different.” The goldsmith’s fingers fluttered like the wings of a humming bird, quicker and quicker, as she wove a spell over the last coil of wire. A shape formed, but not that of a flower. An animal stood on the table – a tiny gold monkey with long arms and tufted ears.

“A cling-monkey!” cried Mer. “How clever.”

The old woman held the figure out to Storm, who looked at it warily.

“Are you a Fire-witch?” Storm asked.

“Never!” The old woman chuckled. “I am child of the Tortoise. Come, let me embrace you, for you remind me of my long-dead daughter.”