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Dipping yellow stained fingers into a pouch at her hip, Berna ai’Rowling, Dye-Mistress of the Fifth Merchant Tier, held out a palm full of ground turmeric beneath the little girl’s nose.

“Turmeric, for yellow dye,” the girl said, her dirty chin lifting in challenge. Fierce pride, inbred no doubt, shone from her large azure eyes.

“Good,” Berna said, returning the powder to her pouch. Undoubtedly a middle child by the state of her clothes, the girl had likely approached her to avoid the Charnel Halls.

A faraway wail from the catacombs bleached the girl’s face.

“I shall consider your apprenticeship.”

(Written for The Prediction. Challenge words: middle, turmeric, wail)

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