“They must be up,” said Tris, allowing the man to open the gate for her. “Little Bear is sticking close to Briar.”

“Fortunate Briar,” murmured Crane as they went inside.

The cottage’s inhabitants were seated at the table, clutching steaming cups of tea. Rosethorn’s head came up when she saw Crane.

“Turn right back around,” she said tartly. “I didn’t escape quarantine to get buckled into your harness.”

Tris took her basket from Crane and carried everything into the kitchen area. Sandry brought the man a chair from Lark’s workroom.

“Charming as ever,” Crane remarked as he arranged himself on the chair. “However did they manage to entertain you at Urda’s House?”

“Only you could make ‘Urda’s House’ sound like an ill wish,” Rosethorn growled.

Crane raised a single eyebrow. “I would have to care about the place to ill wish it,” he informed her. “I assume their own poor management is curse enough for them.”

“How would you know about their management or anything else?” demanded Rosethorn. “You wouldn’t sully the purity of your habit by going anywhere near the Mire.”

“Shall I point out that your mission of mercy to the impoverished resulted in your enforced stay?” drawled Crane. “On second thought, I shall not. You so frequently assure me you are attentive to all things that I must believe you spent your last week in quarantine by design.”

“Will you both just stop?” Lark asked wearily. “There’s nothing to be gained by bickering.” She smiled a thank you at Tris, who was setting bowls and plates on the table.

Sandry got up to help, but Tris waved her back into her seat. Within a few moments everyone was able to help themselves to the food sent by the temple’s finest cooks.

When Rosethorn put down her fork, Crane said, “With regard to your time—”

“No!” Briar said hotly, glaring at Crane. “Let her be! Find somebody more important. She did her bit, and she needs rest!” When Rosethorn put a hand on his arm, he shook her off. “I know you swore to serve folk when you got dedicated,” he told her, “but you got to be sensible, and if you won’t speak up, I will.” He glared at Crane, who regarded him as if he were a bug. “Find one of them great mages that’s up to your weight,” insisted the boy.

“‘One of them great mages,’” Crane repeated tonelessly. “Are you serious?” He looked at each of the four, brows arched, mouth pursed. “None of you has the least notion, I take it?”

The young people stared at Lark, then Rosethorn, confused. Both women looked down, not meeting their charges’ eyes.

Tris scowled at Crane. “The least notion of what?”

Crane sighed and fanned himself with a linen handkerchief. “Rosethorn is a great mage. She is one of the most powerful with regard to medicines and plants in all the Pebbled Sea and its environs.”

“He says ‘one of’ because he means he’s another,” muttered Rosethorn. She poured herself a fresh cup of tea.

Crane sniffed. “Surely that is obvious.” To the four he said, “Winding Circle is the rival of the university at Lightsbridge in the renown and quality of its mage-teachers. It is famed from Yanjing to Blaze-Ice Bay.” He sighed. “You didn’t know about Winding Circle either. How charming.”

“We knew that Niko’s a great mage,” said Tris. “Someone we met last fall told us.”

Crane inclined his head in agreement as regally as any king. “Lark too is a great mage, for all she came to it later in life,” he went on. “Frostpine is the greatest of the smith-mages of our time. None other can work all kinds of metal, except for young Daja, here.”

Briar, Sandry, and Tris looked at Daja, who shrugged. She had known of Frostpine’s reputation for a year, but had not chosen to speak of it much. Frostpine wanted to teach her: nothing else mattered.

Crane went on, “You four have the honor of studying with teachers of royal magnitude. How you could be ignorant of their stature—”

The young people looked down, embarrassed.

“Oh, cork it,” said Rosethorn, glaring at the man. “Don’t belabor the point. It happens we are the best teachers for their talents—that’s all they ever needed to know. If you have something really important to say, say it. I want to go back to bed.”

Crane spread his handkerchief on the table and fussed with it, folding it into a series of tiny pleats. After a moment he said quietly, “Very well. Here it is, with no flourishes: most of those sent to work with me are hopeless. I have no time to both teach them and uncover the nature of this disease. You know this work must be done quickly and accurately, by masters, not green students.”

“I’m so tired,” Rosethorn muttered. She looked up, meeting Crane’s eyes. “You don’t need me. You have a diagnosis oil; you must be halfway to a cure.”

“If I am, it is news to me,” replied Crane acidly. “Finding the oil was luck. As far as divining the heart of the disease, I have done test after test, without result.” He took a deep breath. “We have our differences, but you know—I would hope you know—that I respect your gifts and your knowledge. You are needed.”

Briar was uneasy, hearing so proud a man do what sounded too close to begging for comfort. He knew without even reaching out that the girls felt it too. He wanted to offer to help, but there was too much unpleasantness between him and Crane. In the man’s eyes he was a low-bred thief—Briar did steal the shakkan from Crane’s greenhouse—and in Briar’s experience Money-Bags like Crane never changed their minds about people like him.