“That’s just your rheumatism!” Foam attempted one of his jokes. But Storm noticed he looked as worried as his captain as he left with Lake.

Storm watched them vanish into the dim, smoky light of the tavern. She sat, thinking, barely aware of the noise of the other customers, eating, drinking, joking, arguing.

If there really was a Fire-witch on Bellum intent on killing her, then the sooner she left the island the better. But was she ready to return to her life as Yanlin’s Weather-witch, to life as a non-sex?

She missed Thorn more than ever. Visiting Bellum Island had been his life’s dream. Instead of returning immediately to the tea shop, she would find a gift to lay at his grave in the cave of the Ancestors. Storm bowed her thanks to the proprietress and walked out into the heat, noise and bustle. She pushed the thought of a Fire-witch firmly from her mind. She was on a mission!

Storm visited stall after stall, looking for something special enough for Thorn’s ghost. Something to give him pleasure in the afterlife. At last she found it in a small stall in a tiny square. The stallholder was an ancient woman, bent as a fishing hook, who carved toy boats from driftwood and painted them in unexpected colours. Thorn had been Chosen by Water and had loved sailing above all things. The moment Storm saw the boat, she knew.

It was a twin-masted ship: a seagoing vessel that could be sailed single-handed if the sailor was skilled enough. Its sails were golden as the sun, made of fine linen and sewn with thread so delicate she could hardly see the stitches. The mast, keel and rudder were dark blue-grey, and the rest of the boat was painted in pale green, like a heron’s egg. Storm picked the toy up in a careful hand, saw the tiny cast-iron anchor lying on coiled rope, ready for use; marvelled at rope rigging so finely twined she could not see how human fingers could have made it.

Storm held the boat out to the old woman, who was watching her, her head twisted up sideways because of her bent back. The woman’s eyes were as sharp as splinters.

Storm bowed politely. “May I purchase this, please?”

“You have not asked the price,” said the old woman.

Storm’s heart sank. She had not thought the boat might be beyond her means to purchase. Of course, something so fine would cost much more than four silver pieces and a few coppers, which was all she had. “Please, Madam,” she said haltingly. “Tell me your best price. I want it for a grave gift.”

“Ah,” said the woman. “That might make a difference. Tell me, was the dead one a good sailor?”

Storm nodded. “The best of us all.”

“In that case, how much money have you?”