The Goldsmith's Daughter by Tanya Landman

stones, for he could no longer see the marks and fissures that divided inferior gems from those of higher quality. I found the finest for him, but one morning as I did so could not resist speaking of what it might become.
    â€œWould this not make a fine headdress?” I asked tentatively, holding up a clear and perfect jade.
    â€œSet how?” he said, taking the stone.
    â€œHigh above the head. So the sun will shine through and illuminate the colour.”
    His approving grunt gave me greater confidence. Later, on matching turquoise stones of even size and hue, I ventured, “These speak to me of a breastplate, Father. Would they not look fine arranged in a pattern, thus?”
    He nodded at each suggestion I made, and I had the great pleasure of seeing the ideas I provided fashioned by him into marvels of gold. Freed from grinding domesticity, my spirit soared and my mind was unleashed.
    It was not long before he moved me on to other tasks: refining beeswax, stoking up the charcoal-heated furnace, setting grains of gold in a vessel to melt. I proved competent, and one afternoon he said softly, “I begin to wonder if the skill in your fingers might match the ideas in your head. I think, perhaps, your talent may exceed my own.” He looked at me thoughtfully, plucking at his ear lobe, his eyebrows drawn together. “I feel the temptation, Itacate. Some god dangles possibilities before me. Am I to yield, or reject them?”
    He did not expect me to give an answer; he was merely speaking his thoughts aloud. I sat, head bowed, while he considered my future. “I know not if your skill is a gift from the gods, or a means of bringing disaster down upon us.” He sighed heavily, and was quiet for some time. But when I lifted my face I saw that he had come to a decision. “I find I cannot resist my own curiosity. I am eager to see what you can do. Let us begin.”
    And so it was – with trembling hands lest he offend the gods in doing so – my father taught me the skills of the goldsmith. Over the days and months that followed, I learnt first to make small beads which I then strung together onto necklets. Under his supervision, I created lip plugs. Earrings. Breastplates. The time I had spent moulding tortilla dough into models had made my fingers nimble. My work was good, and each day I felt my powers in the art grow.
    When my father reasoned that I had learnt enough of his methods, he pressed a lump of beeswax into my palm. In his own hand he held Mitotiqui’s ill-crafted necklet.
    â€œIt may be unwise to do this; the gods alone know what will come of it. And yet, surely it must be they who have given you this gift? I want to see how you fare with a larger piece. You are to fashion this next work entirely on your own. I am going to unmake this,” he said, holding my brother’s creation. “You shall have this jade for your figurine.”
    I did not watch him set the necklet in the fire to melt the gold away from the stone, but I felt a stab of pain on my brother’s behalf. His handiwork was wiped out as though it had never been. I was delighted to have the jade, and yet a fissure of sadness ran through my happiness, making it brittle and as likely to be fractured as Popotl’s rejected amber.
    But I had been given a task. I had to push thoughts of Mitotiqui away while my fingers, so much smaller and more dextrous than my father’s, shaped the figurine that I had scratched upon the tile.
    I was not satisfied with my first attempt, and balled the wax in my fist before my father saw it. My second was an improvement, although I was not content, for the god’s face was dull and lifeless. My father examined my work, and pronounced himself pleased, but I was not.
    â€œI will try once more.”
    â€œIt is time to eat.”
    â€œI will come when I have finished.”
    I chose not to accompany him to where Mayatl was laying out food on reed mats, but sat