Tomlan Goodwin was usually fairly good at restraining his curiosity, but it wasn't every day that he saw a little girl having half of a lengthy conversation with nobody. "Who're you talking to?" he asked, walking off the path to where she sat beside the small stream.

She jumped to her feet immediately, put her hands on her hips and glared at him. "If Rosalind sent you, then you can just get lost, you slubbering scut."

He stopped again and stared at her. She was a well-dressed little girl; her blue dress was carefully made and almost clean, and her dark hair was neatly braided. She obviously came from a good family, but perhaps she was a little bit cracked in the head. She marched right up to him, still glaring, and kicked him on the shin. Hard. "Leave me alone, you sarden looby," she snapped.

"What was that for?" he protested. "Who's Rosalind?"

Her eyes widened. Looking at them now, he suspected that she'd been crying. "You don't know Rosalind?" she asked in a much smaller voice.

"No," he said, as he rubbed his shin.

She chewed on her nail. "Pox," she muttered.

"You're a vicious little thing, aren't you?" he remarked cheerfully.

"How was I supposed to know?" she snapped. "You're both about the same age." She glared at him again before adding "And I'm not little."

He couldn't help but grin at that. She couldn't have been any more than eight years old to his twelve, so she was definitely the littler of the two of them. She stalked back towards her spot by stream. "I don't care if you know her or not, you can leave me alone all the same."

He blinked, and then followed her. "You've made me even more curious now," he told her as he settled down beside her – making sure he was just out of her reach. "It's only fair that I at least find out who this Rosalind is. I'm going to have a bruise on my leg for at least a week."

He saw the side of her mouth move just a tiny bit, a fraction of a smile. "She's my sister."

Ah. Sisters. He knew all about those.

"Are you hiding from her? You're relatively easy to spot, you know. And hear, if you keep on talking to yourself."

"I wasn't talking to myself, and I wasn't hiding. She knows where she can find me, but she's too much of a gormless craven to be nasty without using her magic."

He wasn't surprised, not if she went around kicking people like that all the time. "She's Gifted?"

"Only a little. Not enough to be properly trained or become a mage or anything."

"Oh, so she's drained herself? That's why she can't use her magic?"

The girl shrugged. "She still had some left when I last saw her. She just can't magic me here because the sprites won't let her."

Tom blinked. "The sprites won't let her," he repeated. He could see her watching him from the corner of her eyes.

"They don't like magic from humans," she said. "Rosalind's magic isn't anywhere near powerful enough to spell me around them." One corner of her mouth curled upwards again, and she had a wicked glint in her eye. "She's jealous enough as it is. Her not being able to get me here makes her downright furious."

"Sprites," he repeated. He blinked at her again. Just when he was starting to think she wasn't cracked, she starts talking about creatures from tales. "Where?"

"Right there," she said, and pointed at the stream.

"In the water?"

"Well, of course," she said. "They're water sprites."

He peered into the stream, but couldn't see anything out of the ordinary.

"You're pulling my leg," he said with a grin.

"No," she insisted. "You won't be able to see them unless you have the right sort of magic."

"You have magic too then?"

"It's not the Gift. It's different. It's water sprite magic, and it lets me see and talk to them."

"You said 'water sprite'. Are there other types of sprites too then?"

She gave him a long look. "You actually believe me, don't you?"

He shrugged. "There's no reason not to. Some people have all sorts of unusual magics."

"That's exactly what I say," she said. "Only, most people still think I'm cracknobbed or laugh at me anyway. Father says he's found it's easiest to just keep it quiet." She gave him an accusatory look. "But you insisted."

He gave her a broad smile. "So I did." He watched the stream, although he didn't strain his eyes to look for any sprites. "Your Father has the magic too?"

He could see her nod from the side of his eye. "And his grandmother before him. He says that he knows there are tree sprites, and that there might be other sprites too. He says that the sprites never show themselves to humans because they are immortals and all the immortals are supposed to be in the Divine Realms. He said that mages put a barrier up two hundred odd years ago, and that before that, the sprites would show themselves to anyone. Now, they stay hidden, and only those of us with the magic to talk to them can see them."

"Can you see them now?" he asked. He pulled out a small paper bag from his pocket. "Peppermint?"

She smiled and took one. "Thank you." She pointed down into the water. "One. They don't like to live too crowded together. She's right there."

"Does she have a name?"

"Yes. I can't tell you though. I know it inside my head, but it's impossible to actually say. It's the same with all the water sprites." The girl threw the peppermint into the water.

"Don't you like them? Peppermints, I mean."

"She wanted to know what it was."

He offered her the bag again, and she looked at it and then paused. After a moment, she took another. "She says you haven't poisoned them," she informed him, and put it in her mouth. "She can tell," she added, talking around the sweet. "She says that poison stains the essence of the food, and she can tell."

"Stains!" he exclaimed, and scrambled to his feet. "I completely forgot!" Seeing her stare, he explained "My father's a carpenter and I run messages for him and help out. He sent me to tell Master Wright, he's another carpenter, that Mistress Turner decided she didn't want her new table stained. I just hope I'm not too late." He grinned at her again. "I lost track of time, talking to you."

She bristled. "It's not my fault." She stood up and brushed her dress off. "I can take you straight to him though. He's my father."

"Master Wright is?"

"That's what I said."

"I know who you are now. You're too old and too female to be Berkeley. And you're obviously not Rosalind, so you must be Clara."

"How do you know that?"

"I don't remember. I think one of my sisters is friends with yours."

She scowled and walked off.

"I didn't say I knew her." She kept on walking. "Hey, Clara," he called. "Where are you going?"

She stopped and turned around again. "Hurry up, I'm showing you a short cut from here."

Bossy, he thought as he ran to catch up. Even worse than my sisters at that age.

She gave him a poke as he fell into step beside her. "You're not to call me Clara," she told him. "Only my mother does that, and Rosalind, depending on her mood."

"I'm Tom Goodwin, short for Tomlan. Call me either one, I don't mind. Am I supposed to be formal and call you Miss Wright?"

She snorted. "No, that's even worse. You can call me Clary."