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. "You don't usually find such perfection in cotton
weaving."
Gisella knew he was right. Cotton was coarser and
often contained many more thread imperfections,
which professionals called slubs. She wanted that
fabric -- badly. The airy, genuine silk would feel like
butter against her fair skin, and its rich hue would
complement her fiery hair. In her mind's eye she saw
herself in a clingy gown of blue-green, not to mention
that she could sell the remaining fabric at a substantial
profit. The vision made her smile like a cat in the sun.
But she didn't want to pay what the merchant was ask-
ing.
She had gulled this old, buck-toothed dwarf, but she
feared he was reaching the limit of his patience and his
greed.
She wanted that fabric.
"OK, three steel, but not a copper more," she ex-
haled.
"Three and a half," he intoned, wagging his head.
"Sold!" Gisella hugged the fabric to her chest. It was
not the best deal she had ever made, but the fabric was
worth the cost. Now all she had to do was get him to
extend her some credit until she could bargain her way
into some cash. She was wetting her lips for the per-
formance, when she heard shrieks.
Woodrow and Burrfoot! She suddenly remembered
them and spun around. They weren't in the booth. She
heard the shriek again and she looked over at the thing
the baron had called a carousel. Dwarves were fleeing
like trolls on fire, jumping from the carousel and run-
ning for their lives. There was an empty slot in the car-
ousel, as if one of the creatures had been ripped from
its place
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