"I sincerely hope you mean 'of the forge'," Martel protests to Flute, apparently unsurprised by the little goddess' affection for the wild cats, ability to win them over or ability to hold them all at once when he's fairly sure combined they ought to be bigger than she is. (Not quite.)

He gives Candice a wry sort of look in the meanwhile, managing a free-standing lounge that some people have to practice to really perfect. "Nice enough," he says, grudgingly, "but not entirely to my taste."