The witch put down the flagon with a flourish, opened her mouth and spewed forth fire. The children in the crowd screamed. The witch whirled round twice, then tossed a thin bamboo oval high into the air. She spat out a thin streak of flame that shot into the air – an arrow made of fire! The hairs on the back of Storm’s neck rose as she saw the shaft of fire shoot skywards and strike the bamboo as it tilted mid-air and began to fall to earth. The oval burst into flames and fell on to the upturned faces of the crowd as snow-white ash.

The glow inside the Fire-witch faded. Again, the woman whirled round and round until the bottom of her tunic bellowed out in circle of flowing red. She spread her arms and her long fingers fluttered.

The witch spun to a stop, gathered another handful of twigs and flung them on the brazier. Flames shot into the air and divided into countless droplets, like raindrops of fire. The burning beads spun up out of the iron bowl into the air. They jumped on to the woman’s arms, shoulders and head, until she had a line of dancing flames sitting on her from fingertip to fingertip. She reached out her arms wide and – with a shriek of exultation – began to spin faster. The fire drops grew long, stretched thin, and twisted together until the woman and the flames she carried became one bending, twisting column of fire.

The crowd bellowed with rapture and horror. Bile rose in Storm’s throat. Her heart hammered in her chest. She made herself look away from the platform and the human column of fire. And found herself gazing into the face of an old man who stood on the other side of the platform. White hair sprouted from his head, seeming to protest at being tidied into a topknot. He had a round, wrinkled orange face, like a persimmon. His nose was wide and flat, and his eyes nearly as large as those of the cling-monkey that sat on his shoulders.

She had found him!

As the old man looked into her eyes, the smell of ash and charcoal was swept away by the cool fragrance of the high jungles. For a five-breath, it felt like she was once more standing on Yanlin Mountain, looking out to the sea rolling on to the harbour beach.

The cling-monkey began to jump up and down. Even over the crowd’s applause she heard its shriek of alarm.

Storm heard the voice of the Tortoise in her head: Beware the fire within and without!

Her eyes jerked back to the performance. The woman had stopped spinning; the flames dwindled, separated. The Fire-witch stood, arms aloft, a hundred tiny red drops dancing in her hair, her clothes, her hands. The flames began to flicker. One by one, they went out.

The air itself felt queasy.