4,500 words on Green this morning, to 54,100. This on the couch with my leg propped up, which is already making me slightly batty. Still, the knee is much better this morning. I might even find more writing time later.

Mother Iron held my arm pinched in a grip that seemed tight enough to shear pipes. I looked into her eyes. They gleamed with the orange-white of the hottest coals.

"So it begins." Mother Iron's voice was rusty as a grate. Her breath gusted like a wind from a great distance, and reeked of stale air.

"We move swiftly," the Dancing Mistress answered softly. "To stay ahead of the hunt which is even now being called."

The old woman -- or woman-thing, for I was mindful of Secundo's sleeping gods -- squeezed my arm again. "Be true and hold your edge," she said. Then she was gone, so quickly she might as well have vanished like mist banished before breaking sunlight.