The metal seemed to melt into her palm; the golden flesh latching onto her fingers like a leech. Gripping it with more and more force as she climbed, it began to bleach her hand which was the colour of fresh gingerbread to a bright white, starting with her knuckles and then slowly tinting each fingertip until she resembled an old china doll that her aunt had once gifted her but she had kept in the attic out of fear. Nina was the sort of child who fidgeted almost as much as she breathed air and the idea of any object set into her hand for a very long time unsettled her but she was also the sort of child too wise (or at some times too foolish) to disobey a grown-up. So, she repressed the urge to throw it high above the ledge and hope it landed on the bank and kept it wedged firmly as it struggled against her grip, listening to it hiss all the while like a savage cat from the power that raced through it.