Osprey walked over. “Sir?”

“Tell the runners I want the girl Trisana from Discipline called over here—”

“Tsk, tsk,” Rosethorn said mockingly from her station. “I can’t imagine you would have forgotten that our four charges speak mind-to-mind without physical contact.”

“I think the tea’s boiling over,” muttered Osprey, darting away.

“Rosethorn,” Crane said ominously.

Tris? Briar mind-called. Would you come to the greenhouse? We’ve something for you to do—taking notes for Old Picklepuss Crane.

Finally! was her elated reponse. Just let me tell Lark! Thank you!

Don’t thank me, Briar thought. Crane rides folk hard.

I don’t care if he rides me with a bit and spurs. At least I’ll be doing something! Now, how do I get in there?

He explained about the washroom, then let her go. He had thought to mention his suspicions, but in the end he chose to keep quiet. If there was magic to be seen, Tris would notice without prompting. If he mentioned it beforehand, it might plant the idea in her head, making her see its flicker if it was there or not.

It was half an hour before Osprey came to the workroom door. “Sir, the girl Trisana from Discipline is here.” Tris walked in, robed, masked, gloved, capped, and shod as they all were. Her wiry hair fought the cap, forcing red curls out from under the cloth. In one hand she carried her wooden writing-case.

Crane gestured to it. “You should not have fetched that. We have writing materials enough, and you won’t be able to take it out of here until we have a cure for the disease—if we find one.”

Tris looked at her case, then shrugged. “I still would have brought this,” she told Crane. “Everything’s how I like it.” She squared her shoulders. “Where do I sit?”

Crane pointed to Peachleaf’s chair and even managed to wait until Tris was settled before he began to explain how he wanted things done. Briar returned to work, trying not to feel restless. Had she seen it? Or had the other magics in these rooms blinded her to any ghostly shimmer in the trays?

There was no more time to think. First Rosethorn, then Crane made changes to the additives for the trays. Putting old blends away and making up new ones kept Briar occupied for some time. Once that was done, he started a new tray.

“I asked, could you wait a moment, please?” That was Tris, ominously patient.

“My dear young woman, if you cannot keep up with me—” Crane began.

“You just gave me a list of numbers, Dedicate. Which would you prefer, that I get them down as you gave them to me, or that I hurry and make mistakes?”

Briar waited, but Crane did not reply. Risking a glance, Briar saw that Crane drummed his worktable with his fingers as he glared at Tris. The girl wrote something carefully, then said, “All right.”

Crane resumed his dictation. Briar worked on as tension ebbed from the air. That’s one, he thought, dripping mullein oil into three wells. Just let her keep him happy till she sees the magic in the pox, that’s all I ask. He wasn’t sure who he asked it of. Lakik the Trickster was a bad god to ask for anything but ill luck to enemies, and Onini had no interest in medicine things. Urda, perhaps. She was the goddess with a stake in all this.

Crane and Rosethorn continued to change the ingredients Briar used, marking some trays to be kept overnight, telling him to get rid of others. That job alone was scary: the trays had to be carried into the outer workroom to be emptied and boiled. He did not want to spill anything.

The clock struck, though Briar wasn’t sure of the hour, just before he heard Tris say, “Just a moment—you said three drops of elecampane essence?”

“Rather clearly, as I recall,” Crane replied.

“But you added three drops not so long ago.”

“I did not.”

“Yes, you did, around two o’clock,” replied Tris. She flipped through a sheaf of notes. “Right here. See?”

Crane looked over Tris’s shoulder. “Those are not your notes.”

“They’re your last scribe’s. I looked through while you were getting supplies.”

“You just happened to remember.” Briar couldn’t tell if Crane was sarcastic or thoughtful.

“I remembered,” drawled Tris, much like Crane, “because I memorized the spelling of elecampane, in case you needed it again.”

Crane looked up and saw that not only was Briar watching, but Rosethorn as well. “Do I afford you amusement?” he wanted to know.

“Yes,” Rosethorn told him immediately.

Briar ducked his head and acted busy.

There had been no fresh changes to his slate for over an hour when he stopped for a stretch. Looking up, he was startled to find the sky overhead was turning dark. Rosethorn had chosen this moment to rest too: she watched Crane and Tris as she leaned against her table.

As if Crane felt the change in the air, he straightened and braced his hands against the small of his back, twisting to loosen it. “Put your brush down,” he advised Tris. “Move a little.”

Tris slid off the chair, making a face when her stiff legs hit the floor. Slowly she walked over to examine Briar’s work area. He waited until she squinted at the tray he was about to start, then said quietly, “That yellow stuff, that’s the blue pox. They render it in there—” He pointed to the outer workroom. “Then they put it in these rock trays, and I drip things in each pocket with the blue pox.”