Briar felt his guard stiffen. He tried to smile. “I woulda been home sooner, if I’d had my druthers.”

Tris only glanced up at Rosethorn and nodded, turning pink as she did. Rosethorn nodded back. When the redheaded girl reached Briar, she said frankly, “You look like you were eaten by wolves.”

“Nothing so nice,” he replied, and carefully handed the shakkan down to her.

Half turning in the saddle, his guard asked, “You’re leaving me already?”

Briar nodded. “I must. These girls will just get weepy and embarrass me if you stay.” He slid into the road, landing to one side of a puddle. Daja steadied him.

Sandry closed the distance between them at a run. Colliding with him, she wrapped her arms tightly around his neck. “You dreadful boy!” she cried. “Don’t you ever do that again!”

He patted her awkwardly and growled, “You’re making my shirt wet, crying on it.”

Sandry laughed and stood back, wiping her eyes. “It’s already soaked through. Tris, can’t you deal with all this rain?” She fumbled in her pockets until she found her handkerchief.

“Why is it always me?” asked the redhead without expecting a reply. A circle of dry air opened around the entire group, rain streaming to all sides as if she’d covered them with a glass bowl. The guards glanced at each other sidelong, unnerved by the display of magic. Tris didn’t even notice.

Sandry blew her small nose briskly and inspected Briar once she’d put the linen handerchief away. “You need rest, and you need decent food,” she announced. “Rosethorn probably hasn’t done much better than you.”

“Look for yourself,” Daja remarked softly. Sandry turned.

Rosethorn had dismounted. Now she stood ankle deep in mud, arms wrapped tight around Lark, her face buried in Lark’s shoulder as the other woman held her. She didn’t seem to be crying; she just hung onto her friend for all she was worth.

Sandry gathered her skirts and went over to the women, sliding her own arms around Rosethorn’s waist. Daja followed her more slowly, to pat Rosethorn’s back. Briar went to stand nearby. Tris, crimson with emotion, glared at the guards as if daring them to comment.

Their corporal twitched his head. Quietly they turned their mounts and rode back to Summersea.

When Rosethorn drew out of Lark’s and Sandry’s holds, she said crossly, “I’m not crying, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’m just … tired. I needed to rest for a moment.”

Lark wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “No wonder. You two look worn to the bone, my dearest. And why not? Locked up for days, like jail, without your garden and only nursing to occupy you—I think Little Bear likes nursing more than you.” She drew Rosethorn uphill, toward Winding Circle. The four and Little Bear walked along. Lark continued, “And I bet Jokubas and his people were talking at you too.”

“As if this were my fault,” Rosethorn said blackly, and sniffed.

“But you’re all right now,” Sandry announced. “You’re both home safe, and we’re going to be fine.”

“The epidemic is far from over,” cautioned Lark. “We still have work.”

“But we’re where we should be. That’s the important thing,” Sandry replied cheerfully. “We’re all home.”

8

Soon after Rosethorn’s and Briar’s return, everyone but Tris went back to bed: Daja was exhausted from her work in the forge, Lark and Sandry from spelling cloth to keep disease at bay. Not long after they went to their rooms, novices came with fresh supplies of oils, powders, and clothing. Tris directed them to Lark’s workshop and watched as they placed their supplies along the wall. She noticed that the big makeshift table in the workshop had to be scrubbed, the wood cleaned of anything from the day before. Tris did that first; it was the only thing she could help them with. The dull work of blending fresh ingredients into a paste that blazed with magical strength, then rubbing it into cloth, was Lark’s and Sandry’s craft.

Once the table was clean, scrubbed with sand, and wiped down with an infusion of thyme leaves, Tris checked the cold-box. Rosethorn’s and Briar’s arrival had caught her by surprise. Until now Lark and Sandry had been too weary to eat anything but soup at the end of the day, and Daja had taken her meals with Frostpine and Kirel. Tris didn’t have the supplies she needed to feed the entire cottage again. Picking up two baskets, she walked out onto the spiral road that wound through the temple community. It would take her to the central kitchens at the Hub.

On her way back to Discipline, Tris didn’t realize she had company until long hands wrapped around one of her baskets and tugged. Looking up with a sharp comment ready for the interloper, she saw Dedicate Crane.

She surrendered the basket without an argument. Work was good for Crane. “You look terrible,” she informed him. “And doesn’t that wash off?” She pointed to the red thumbprint between his eyes. “Rosethorn and Briar still have theirs from this morning.”

“I spelled it to last for weeks,” Crane drawled. “It is better so, particularly when one is known to be exposed to the disease regularly. And I am sorry I do not meet your qualifications for male beauty. I have been working.”

“You look like you need a rest,” she replied. “It won’t do anyone good to have you fall ill from overwork.”

“You are too young to sound like my former governess,” Crane informed her as they walked across the road to Discipline. Little Bear came bounding out, set to give Tris his usual hysterical greeting. When he saw her companion, the dog raced back inside. On his frequent visits to the cottage after he had asked for Lark’s help, Crane had made his opinion of enthusiastic dogs very clear.