The brows, and bloodshot eyes, rose over the screen of fingers. “You are staring,” he said, voice muffled by his hands.

Sandry made a face and turned to get the cups. Something twinged near her heart as she gathered Lark’s, Tris’s, and her own cup and passed over those that belonged to the missing three. Last she grabbed one of the spares and placed them all on the table, then entered Rosethorn’s workroom. In a corner near the kitchen were the jars with their teas, each mixed by Rosethorn to her exacting taste. Using a dish, Sandry ladled out the morning blend, a sunny tea heavy with rosehips and bits of lemon peel. She resealed that jar and hesitated, her eyes going to the jar labeled Endurance. Finally she removed a spoonful, dusting it over the mound of morning blend.

Who can’t use a little endurance in times like these? she asked as she resealed that jar. No one, that’s who. Taking the dish to the hearth, she poured the contents into the teapot strainer. Once the kettle boiled, she added water to the pot and carried it over to the table.

Tris had returned and was seated across from Crane, slicing a loaf of fruit bread. Sandry wanted to sigh. Tris’s blue wool gown was rumpled; her wiry copper hair strained at the scarf she used to tie it away from her face. Sandry reached out and brushed her fingertips against Tris’s skirt. A touch of light skipped through the weave as the wrinkles dropped out, leaving the cloth as neat as if it had been pressed.

“I would have thought you’d be in your workroom, Crane, not paying calls,” Lark said, emerging from her bedroom. She had combed her glossy curls and donned a green habit. The shadows under her eyes were untouched. “Who’s helping you?”

“Some novices, a few Water Temple initiates.” Crane flapped his long fingers as if shooing the Water dedicates out of his presence. “This is not a social visit.”

“You need to talk to Rosethorn?” inquired Lark as she sat at the table. “We could arrange it through Sandry or Tris and Briar—”

Crane shook his head. “This is—I mean, I—I would like to request—”

Lark sighed and picked up a piece of bread. “Crane, it’s too early for you to dance like a kitten. You know I’ll help you if I can.”

Sandry passed a slice of bread to Crane, who began to pick it apart. “It’s the masks, and the gloves,” he said at last, without looking up.

“Don’t tell me Water Temple’s short on those too,” Lark said crossly. “I swear, I’ll go to Moonstream herself—” She stopped abruptly; Crane was shaking his head.

“They have plenty, all with protective signs woven into them, as is standard,” he replied. “To deal with normal contagion they are perfect. My work is somewhat different. I must refine the disease into its essence, then experiment until we can develop a method of magical diagnosis. Manipulating pox samples, finding those substances to which it reacts—the risks are great that my staff and I will be exposed before we are able to fight the disease. Water Temple healers at least have enough raw power to burn it from their own bodies if they must, but we are not all healers. I want my people to be safe. As things stand, we feel as if we dance on a fire in paper shoes.”

Lark reached across the table, holding a hand out to him. After a moment’s hesitation, Crane slid his elegant fingers into her palm. “You’d like us to add a layer to your protections,” she said, her dark eyes grave.

Tris, listening hard, poured the tea into cups. Sandry kept very still, though her blue eyes were wide with interest.

Crane nodded, a blush creeping under his pallid skin. “I know it is difficult,” he said apologetically. “I realize that the general supply of masks and gloves may run low and you will be called on to help supply all of our healers.”

“Actually, you’ve given me the solution to a problem,” Lark told him with a smile, giving his hand a pat before she released it. She accepted her teacup from Sandry as Tris gave the guest’s cup to Crane. “I wanted to teach Sandry how spells are laid in cloth after it’s woven.” To Sandry she explained, “We make up a spelled oil and work it into the fiber. The most powerful kind, the oil we shall need for Crane, must be made up fresh every few days. That means the pace of our work is steady. I won’t tell you to do this, but I hope you’ll want to help.”

“As if I’d say no!” Sandry replied, eager to have something to do.

“Thank you,” Crane said with feeling. He drank his tea in tiny sips, to keep from burning his mouth. Sandry noticed that as he drank, his color improved and he sat a little straighter. She smiled to herself and added cream to her own tea.

“Have you had word from”—they all knew Crane was about to say “Rosethorn,” but at the last moment he changed it to—“the city?”

“Flick got worse,” both girls said at once, and made faces at each other. Briar had once said they sounded like a Ragat chorus when they spoke the same words.

“She is the child found”—Crane’s long nose wrinkled; it seemed he was too elegant to use the word “sewer”—“underground?”

“In the sewer,” replied Tris wickedly.

Crane began to eat the fruit bread he had shredded. “Messenger birds arrived from the city just before I came here,” he commented between bites. “Two derelicts who sleep in Mummer’s Close have been found with the disease and taken to Urda’s House. In addition, a body covered with blue spots was found last night in an empty lot on Spice Walk. The ailment is definitely contagious, and the mage who examined the body says that it surely caused the man’s death.”