At the edge of the ocean where the selkies lie, kissed by moonbeams, there lived an artist. Now this artist was a weaver of tales; each decorated with dragons and cats, foxes and seals all bound together in the spell of the story.
Around the her neck, held fast by a coiling chain, this lady kept a bottle. Ahh my child, what could be in that bottle? It was small and jewelled with a single crimson stone; it was pricked and pierced with a delicate pattern made by tiny fingers. Often she was asked what this vessel contained. Always she replied (with a smile shimmering around her eyes) with a different thing each time: kisses, or mist, and other suggestions each like thistledown, fine and flyaway.
The secret of this vessel was even more wondrous than any spoken explanation she gave; for in that tiny bottle the artist kept stories; each gossamer thread ready for the weaving, each rainbow colour ready for the binding; each one a precious seed to be sown into ears ready to hear and eyes ready to see. Child, that bottle contains something beyond treasure and price.