Deep in the depths of slumber, I lay on a patch of grass by a river. There was a hut, and a group of children were exploring it. One of them was tall and skinny, with brown hair falling restlessly along her shoulders. A necklace lay around her neck, made up of pink, white and yellow beads. She wore a dirty smock, her feet were bare and scratched, and she wore a large, silly grin on her face. She was bouncing around the door, trying to unlock it from the outside, while the children around her watched unsurely. One of them got impatient and nudged her, and she lost her footing. She fell sideways, and somehow her necklace got caught. The thread tore and the beads flew into the air, leaving her neck, swimming before her wide, hazel eyes.

The children fell silent, knowing how much those beads meant to her. I sat up and watched, my own brown hair being blown by some invisible wind in this dream. Then I remembered it should have been up in a bow. I looked down at where I should have been wearing my dress, but I was wearing my robes. My staff was nearby. I looked up with a frown and watched the girl again. I knew why the beads were so important to her - they had been crafted with great care by her father, in her favourite colours. I felt a pang of sorrow for her.

"My beads!" the girl shrieked, flinging herself upon the ground and grabbing the beads in fistfuls. Suddenly, footsteps sounded from inside the hut, and the children scattered in four directions, leaving the little girl to collect her beads. I called out softly to her, telling her to go before the inhabitants of the hut saw her, and she looked up and around, a frown on her grimy, windswept face, her hazel eyes filled with a sudden fear. She quickly stood up and looked around, faced by the open grass. Then she began to run - she ran as fast as she could, still clutching her beads, out of sight. I saw the curtains of the hut riffle, but no-one came out. I craned my head and watched the girl fly past me without a second glance, and a single pink bead fell out of her hand. I picked it up, crafted out of stone, polished till the dull material almost shone. I reached up a hand to feel an identical bead in my own hair, though I knew it shouldn't be there, and smiled. Then I woke in the Ethucan inn, beadless, wearing a dress with my hair tied up neatly in a bow.

The beads that were in the girl's hand, those that used to be around her neck, now decorate her hair. I should know.