Mistral dipped the tip of one long, thin finger into the neck of the nearest bottle. A soft wind blew up, making a flurry of Rozebaiel’s fallen rose-petals underfoot. When he withdrew his hand, the wine in the bottle had taken up a similar flow and swirled in lazy circles, shot through with the same starry mists that pervaded the rest of Argantel.
‘I miss Walkelin’s assistance,’ admitted Mistral, examining the breath-taking effect he had just created with a dissatisfied air. ‘He had always the knack for making a neater weave. But it will suffice, will it not?’
‘It is perfect,’ breathed Rozebaiel, and she clapped her hands with childish enthusiasm. ‘Now do the rest!’
Mistral complied, moving between the bottles one by one. Margot, meanwhile, watched this undertaking in silent awe and tot
