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the skins of jaguar and panther spread on the ground by those of the Otomi tribe. My father walked, his eyes fixed on the far corner.
    I knew where he led. As children, Mitotiqui and I had often evaded Mayatl’s clutches and lost ourselves in this vast, crowded throng. Like moths to the moon we would always be drawn to the place where my father now took me. A canal ran along one side of the square. Heavily laden canoes banged against the stone quay, and each other, threatening to unbalance and capsize. At the furthest end merchants from the very edges of the world traded precious stones, silver and gold. Children are invisible to some adults’ eyes, and we had spent many hours staring and giggling at the strange foreigners with their unfamiliar dialects and exotic dress.
    Thinking about my brother now brought a stab of sorrow to my chest. Mitotiqui fought and struggled against his jealousy, but my father – all unknowing – poured salt in his wound with every word he spoke. At our evening meals, he had taken to bringing in pieces he had worked on during the day to show me how they had been made, and to ask my opinion of them. He did not ask for Mitotiqui’s. Thrilled and flattered though I was to have our father’s favour suddenly, I felt the pain it gave my brother. And so in the space of a few days our meals had become strained, uncomfortable affairs. I had never imagined that Mitotiqui’s time in our father’s workshop might have been as torturous to him as the loom was to me; he had never spoken of it. But then neither had I told him how much I hated my weaving. We were twins; we had shared the same womb. And yet now, how little we seemed to know of each other!
    It was something of a relief to be in the marketplace with my father alone. Mitotiqui was in the calmecac that day. For now at least I did not have to juggle the bad feelings of one against the good opinion of the other.
    As we approached the traders, they began to call out to my father.
    â€œOquitchli! See here! I have fine black obsidian – very rare.”
    â€œI have pearls from the distant shores – only the highest quality for you, Oquitchli.”
    â€œOquitchli! I have an amber here that you would trade your mother for!”
    My father gave a rueful laugh. We both knew he had not exchanged a word with his mother since his choice of bride had so offended her. “By all the gods, I believe I would trade her for a grain of salt!” he muttered to me. But he extended his hand for the amber and began to examine it.
    It was a fine stone, and as my father turned it over my palms tingled with excitement. A piece of great splendour could be worked around such a jewel!
    My father seemed pleased and began to talk over the price with Popotl the trader, first giving the stone to me. Popotl raised his eyebrows in surprise, but said nothing.
    I weighed the gem, still warm from my father’s touch, in my hand. It was beautiful, as large as a chicken’s egg and suffused with a rich, honeyed glow. And yet a prickle stirred the hairs on my neck. Something was amiss. I held it to the light, examining it minutely. It seemed perfect, and yet some instinct told me to continue. I twisted it slowly in the sunlight, and – yes, I was right! A tiny fissure ran through the stone. If it was worked, the gem would crack in two.
    My father was about to complete the transaction. I hesitated, not knowing how to speak in front of the trader, for I – a girl – should hold my tongue in the presence of men. I laid my hand upon my father’s arm and gave a slight pull. He turned, frowning.
    â€œIs something the matter, Itacate?” he said coldly.
    â€œThere is a flaw,” I answered quietly.
    â€œShow me.”
    My father studied the gem, holding it to the light as I had done, and then handed it back to the trader, saying, “Sadly, Popotl, your stone is blemished.”
    I kept my eyes lowered while Popotl