It was not a question so Storm did not bother to reply beyond a quick smile. She picked up the knife almost reluctantly, fearful that it would prove less than it seemed on close inspection. The hilt fitted her hand as if made for it; the weighting of blade and hilt was perfect.

The Dolphin had taken her father from her when she was five. It had taken the rest of her life to forgive the Elemental and accept its magic. This knife held them both: the Trickster she had feared and the father she had loved.

“Please, how much?”

“You want that?” Betaan was peering over her shoulder. “It’s very plain.”

Storm ignored the dismissive note in the other girl’s voice.

“How much?”

“No price.” The stallholder was looking at her. She did not seem to see the daughters of the Pact, did not bow or retreat into the dimness of her tent. It was as if she and Storm were alone. “For you, no price. Take it!”

“I cannot. It is work of the highest quality. You must have payment.”

“You are the Weather-witch. It bears your sign. Take it. But remember this place, this island, our people. Remember us!”

She heard Betaan draw in her breath sharply. “Where has she gone?”

The woman had melted into the darkness of her tent.

“After her!” Talon’s daughter gestured to the guards, who stood gaping, laden down and unable to give chase without dumping her purchases on the ground where they might be stolen or trampled. When a guard finally pushed the flap aside, there was no one within.

“Leave it!” Mer put a restraining hand on Betaan’s arm. “There is no harm done. We will mark the stall; the trader will doubtless return.”

Did she say “trader” or … “traitor”? Storm stared at her companions, trying to make sense of the scene. Her fist tightened around the knife’s hilt. First the other witches’ warnings, now this sign of something amiss on Bellum Island. What was going on?

“Time to return, I think.” Mer had taken charge, giving Betaan a little shake. Talon’s daughter seemed to come out of a spell. She turned to Storm, a stiff smile spreading her lips. “Mer is right. We will go home. We have enough purchases today.”

“You have, you mean!” Mer laughed. “We have bought nothing.”

“What am I to do with this?” Storm stared at the knife in her hand. She wanted it desperately.

“Leave it!” Betaan’s voice was sharp. “It is a plain, poor thing.”

“It is plain, yes,” said Mer, “but nonetheless beautiful for that. Keep it, if you wish. The woman gave it to you.”

“Because I am a Weather-witch?” Storm frowned. “I don’t understand.” But her mind-voice remembered: Not “a” Weather-witch. She said “the” Weather-witch.

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