“I’ll help.” Rosethorn looked at Crane. “You knew I would.”
Crane relaxed, giving something that sounded like a sigh of relief. “I thought you might want me to beg just a while longer.”
“Once they stop fussing, they really do well together,” Lark explained to the young people. With a glare at the other two adults she added, “They just have to get the fuss out of the way.”
“She has no system,” began Crane.
“He’d rather criticize how other people work,” added Rosethorn.
“You see what I mean,” Lark told the four.
“We’ve never handled a brand-new disease, though we know the theory,” Crane pointed out quietly. “Finding cures for the current manifestation of old diseases is our strongest area of expertise.”
“You tried all the procedures for known diseases?” Rosethorn asked suddenly. “The smallpox ones, and the measles ones? Just in case?”
Crane looked down his lofty nose. “You must be mistaking me for an apprentice,” he told her coolly. “It was the first thing I did.”
Rosethorn made a face. “All right. Speaking of apprentices—”
Crane looked at Briar. “No. Absolutely not.”
“Absolutely yes,” snapped Rosethorn as Briar glared at Crane. “You don’t have to work with him—”
“I don’t want him in my greenhouse.”
“He’s thorough, he does exactly what he’s told, and he has the steadiest hands of anyone in Winding Circle,” Rosethorn informed Crane.
Briar gaped at her. So much praise from Rosethorn was unnerving. Until the start of quarantine, he could count on his fingers the number of times she’d so much as said “Good job,” and still have plenty of fingers left.
Crane raised his brows. “I know he possesses steady hands. He is a pickpocket.”
“You’re in no position to refuse,” Rosethorn told him. “I need to know if he can do this. There are too few of us who have any aptitude for it. If he’s one, we’ll find out.”
Crane sighed, and looked at Briar. “Keep out of my way,” he warned, getting up.
Briar was about to spit on the floor to show his opinion of the man, but Rosethorn caught his eye. He didn’t need to mind-speak with her to see the warning in her face.
Lark put out a hand to delay Crane’s departure. “Sandry, the new masks and gloves.” Sandry darted into their workroom as Lark asked Crane, “How are you on the spelled robes and foot covers?”
“We have enough for tomorrow and the day after,” Crane replied. “I suppose we will need smaller ones, though, for the boy.” He said it without looking at Briar.
Sandry returned with a metal box. She squinted as she handed it to Crane; the other three turned their faces away from the blaze of magic coming from the protections on the box and from its contents.
“What’s the matter with them?” Crane wanted to know.
“They see magic,” explained Lark. “Don’t you?”
“No,” Crane admitted. “I have a visualization potion I use when I need to see it, but I confess, it makes my skin break out. Rosethorn?”
She sighed. “I know. Dawn. Get some sleep.”
Crane thanked Lark and walked out into the gray afternoon.
“I don’t like him,” Briar growled softly.
“You don’t have to,” said Rosethorn, getting to her feet with a yawn.
“I won’t do it,” retorted Briar. “I just won’t.”
Rosethorn lifted her own eyebrows, enough like Crane that Briar, who’d never seen a resemblance before now, blinked at her. “There are adult mages, rejoicing in great power and knowledge, who would kill for the chance to work for Dedicate Crane,” she informed him. Then her mouth twitched. “Of course, they don’t know him personally.”
Sandry giggled.
“It won’t kill either of us, though we may wish it had,” said Rosethorn. “I’m going back to bed. So should you—we’re due at the greenhouse first thing tomorrow.”
Briar, about to argue, choked. He had been inside the Air Temple’s greenhouse only once, to steal the shakkan. After that, he wasn’t even allowed to loiter near it, to glimpse at the unknown plant-treasures inside.
“Oh, didn’t I mention that?” asked Rosethorn, her voice a little too innocent. “Crane’s workroom is inside the greenhouse.” She sauntered into her room and closed the door.
“She must feel some better if she’s tormenting people,” said Lark, standing. “I’d better get to work.” She walked into her workroom. Sandry followed and closed the door as Tris and Daja gathered the dishes.
He splashed through the sewers in a pure white novice’s robe that was much too big for him. He wore nothing under it, and—to his shock and disgust—he was barefoot. His bare toes sank through inches of the kind of muck that made his guts crawl to think of it.
“Come on,” ordered Flick. He saw her clearly, though neither of them carried lamps. “We’ll miss your birthday party.” She was properly dressed in rags and shoddy boots, jigging in her eagerness to move along.
Briar muttered about not having a birthday, let alone a party, but he followed as quickly as the habit would allow. She was moving farther off down the pipe. “Wait up!” he called, trying to lift the habit’s skirts. Flick only laughed and ran on.