As Peachleaf read, Briar added oil from the Number One bottle to the three Number One wells on his tray. His two copper crescents on Peachleaf’s three o’clock dismissal were safe for now.

When he fetched the next tray, he again put his body between it and the light sources. He thought he may have seen a glimmer, but it was gone on second look. What he needed was Niko, or more likely, Tris. Niko was busy in the city. While Briar, Daja, and Sandry had caught the ability to see magic from Tris, back when their powers were seeping into each other, Tris was still the best at it. She claimed it was because Niko had bespelled her eyeglasses to help her to see power. Briar suspected that Niko had just taken the easy way to teach her the skill.

Whatever the reason, Briar was sure that if magic were part of the blue pox, Tris would see it. But how was she to get the chance? People did not come and go in these workrooms. Anyone who entered had business here, and they had to scrub coming and going. He couldn’t just ask Tris to ramble by and peer in.

Glass shattered noisily in the outer workroom. Immediately Osprey shouted, “Don’t worry, it’s not the pox—just some clean glassware. Not a problem!”

Crane floated through the door like a god of swans, red flags of rage riding high on his sallow cheeks. Stiff-necked old piece of codfish bait, thought Briar, carrying his newest tray to his counter.

“You, and you.” Crane’s voice was almost gentle. “Out. Tell them to send more workers, and quickly.”

“Write the words you have trouble with on a scrap of paper and keep it nearby,” Rosethorn whispered to Peachleaf.

“I do,” sniffed the Water dedicate, “but they fall off the table!”

“Put them where your sleeves won’t knock them off,” Rosethorn hissed. “Honestly, Peachleaf, you’re the best midwife at Winding Circle—try to be more confident. Stand up to him.”

Briar shook his head, writing his labels neatly. Some people might stand up to Crane, he guessed, but Peachleaf wasn’t one of them.

Collecting a new tray, Briar checked it as he had the other two. This time he was almost certain magic was there. He might fare better if he looked into the jars where the essence of the disease was brewed, but the thought of doing so made his scalp creep. He wasn’t sick yet—he’d checked his reflection in the glass wall after lunch—and he planned not to be, ever.

Crane returned. Briar had the chance to work up three trays before he heard Crane say, “That—is—it.”

Briar looked around. Peachleaf had spilled a bottle of ink.

The lordly forefinger pointed. “Out,” Crane ordered.

Peachleaf sighed. “Thank you,” she said, gripping the pointing hand and giving it two hearty shakes. “I won’t take a moment more of your time. Come see me if you ever want a baby delivered.” She trotted out of the room with a wave to Briar.

The Hub clock chimed the half hour. Drat, thought the boy glumly. I lost the bet. He risked a peek at Crane.

The man surveyed Peachleaf’s notes. “Now what am I to do?” he demanded, forgetting perhaps that he was not alone. “Today has been virtually a complete waste.”

Rosethorn faced him, leaning against her counter. “You could always take your own notes,” she said mockingly.

Crane sighed. “Have you forgotten I need my hands free to work?”

“You just like having someone to order around.” Crane glared at Rosethorn. When he didn’t speak she continued, “Why not Osprey? She’s sharp enough, and she puts up with you.”

“I require her where she is,” replied Crane, sagging against his own counter. “I can trust her to watch those flibbertigibbets out there and make sure they do nothing to kill us all. I told you, I will not risk those who show an aptitude for this in a mad scramble for a cure. She must learn to take each step carefully before moving on to the next—such lessons are impossible under these conditions.”

“You may have to make allowances,” Rosethorn pointed out. “You may have to take a risk.”

“I have put five years’ training into Osprey alone—” Crane began.

Briar croaked, “Tris.”

Crane’s head swiveled in his direction. “I beg your pardon?” he asked coolly.

Rosethorn silently adjusted the strings of her mask.

“My—my mate, Tris,” Briar said. “The redhead.”

“You are too young to have a mate,” drawled Crane.

“It’s street slang for best friend,” Rosethorn explained scornfully. “As you’d know if you ever dropped out of your alabaster tower and dealt with real people in real places.”

Crane sighed. “Had I wished to do so, I never would have taken vows.” He turned back to Briar. “Recording notes is more demanding than preparing trays.”

“She reads and writes good,” returned Briar, thickening his street accent out of perversity. “And she remembers the first time you tell her how a thing’s spelt, because she hates bein’ ignorant. She reads books, thick ones, all the time.”

“She also has nothing to do,” added Rosethorn thoughtfully, “and she hates that.”

Briar stared at her, amazed. He’d never thought Rosethorn had noticed.

“She is a child,” Crane replied stiffly, turning away.

Silence fell once more as Rosethorn got back to work. Crane muttered to himself as he tried both to do his spells and to write out what he’d done. Briar shut his ears to the distraction. Half an hour passed before Crane went to the doorway. “Osprey.”