Against the wall her mother’s loom, for once empty, unstrung, the fabric safely stowed in Ellen’s pack. The open front door, to her eyes barred with woven fire. Amulet on a woven cord about her neck, one unobtrusive ring. For trade a dozen more pieces, power sinks, nothing beyond what a competent village artificer might be expected to make for his daughter to trade. Neither Catalin nor Pál make potions, but they have friends. Cookies too. Letters — the friends have children. Silk scarf about her neck.
“Remember to pay attention. That’s what you are worst at — your father’s daughter. You won’t have our …”
Pál cut in.
“You will once you find a weaver — you don’t have to marry him” a fond glance at his wife “but you do need him. You have the spells, you have the fire, but you can’t do it all yourself.
“At least the first few weeks are supposed to be …”
Again Catalin. “You can still be killed on the first day. Pay atten…”
