Excerpt: The Weaver's Daughter

Alva hesitated, then reached out to the enamelled brooch, touching it with a single fingertip. Nothing untoward happened so she lifted it with care and set it on her own palm, gazing with admiration at the exquisite colours, reds, greens and blues as fresh and vivid as the day the craftsman had fashioned them. As she gazed the vivid colours seemed to shimmer and dance, then they kaleidoscoped, whirling together as the double-headed dragon spun on its unending chase. She blinked and the spinning sensation steadied, slowed, came to a halt and the brooch lay still on her palm just as it always had done. She could hear a voice, speaking to her as if from a distance.
‘Alva, can you hear me?’ She blinked, looking doubtfully at the brooch in her hand. The colours still flickered, the finely wrought metal seemed to glow with the heat of firing, the dragons’ nostrils flared hot and bright.