Now the border, a plain white cotton thread on a tiny shuttle, an empty piece with nothing of anyone in it. In her mind it was a glass wall, keeping Briar to one side, Tris to the other. Ten warp threads later, she let that shuttle go and picked up the next, the one that held Tris’s thread. It too was white, but silk like Briar’s, with a moonglow shimmer to it. Now Sandry had to forget the boy for the moment and concentrate on Tris.

Tris was easy to call to mind. This strand was coarse red hair, its curls scissored off, banished until Tris no longer grew lightning bolts in it when she lost her temper. Here was the smell of old books, and a hint of wood polish—Tris liked housework. Here were storm-gray eyes, gentling as Tris combed Little Bear’s coat, when she thought no one else saw how much she loved their ungainly dog.

Too quickly Sandry reached the end of Tris’s stripe. Well, she would return in a moment. Picking up another small shuttle, Sandry closed the redhead in with a fresh white border.

Now she had come to her own stripe. What was she supposed to do? It was one thing to weave her friends, who she knew so well. What could she bring here of herself?

With no warning, her own private nightmare flowered in her brain, fed by the magic. Her parents lay together on a bed. Their skins were riddled with dried smallpox sores; they stank of dead meat.

Dragging her mind from that memory, the girl stumbled into another, a windowless room filled with black velvet shadows. In its center was a silk braid that flickered with light: her first magic. She had worked it because she would try anything to keep back the dark, even call on magic she was certain she did not have.

Except that she’d had it. The braid glowed, as long as her mind was locked on it. It had glowed, and she survived captivity in that hidden room until Niko had found her. “I was looking for treasure,” he’d said once, except the treasure was hers: a new life, and magic, and friends who were more than life.

Now she was at the end of her own stripe, having fed her shuttle through without knowing it. Time to close herself off. Carefully, she added a white cotton border, then picked the shuttle with Daja’s thread. That was simple weaving, after all their dealings with Polyam. Daja was the sea. She was the fire in the forge, and a plain-capped staff. She was Sandry’s first friend at Winding Circle; she was hot metal and crimson, the Trader color for mourning. Sandry gave Daja, and the edge of the cloth, a white border.

Her back cramped. She needed to stretch. As she stood with a groan, her sensitive nose caught the enticing smell of food. Someone had left a tray on the table with a pitcher of juice, a plate of couscous and chicken, a cup of spicy chickpeas, and a platter of unleavened bread. Using her fingers she scooped up couscous as the people of Bijan and Sotat did and jammed it into her mouth. She reached for the pitcher with her free hand, meaning to pour a goblet full of juice.

“Allow me,” a velvet-soft voice said as a hand lifted the pitcher. Sandry yelped, and jumped, and choked. Her uncle pounded her firmly on the back until she caught her breath, then offered her a cup of juice. She drank slowly, beet-red with embarrassment that he had seen her eating like a commoner.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” Duke Vedris remarked, taking a seat. “It never occurred to me that you were not aware that I was here.”

Sandry cleared her throat. “For how long?”

“For some time,” he admitted. “I didn’t want to interrupt. It was fascinating to watch—did you know that you were glowing?”

Sandry shook her head, still blushing.

“Eat.” He nodded at the food. “You look ravenous.”

“I am,” she admitted, taking a chair. Picking up her napkin, she wiped her greasy hand thoroughly. “Shouldn’t you be at supper?”

“It was over an hour ago.” His deep-set brown eyes glittered with amusement. “Your friends went for a walk, rather than interrupt you. Did I hear Dedicate Lark correctly? They have no magic until you are done?” He put food onto a plate for her, his big swordsman’s hands graceful as he handled the utensils.

“None,” she admitted, picking up her fork with properly bred daintiness. “So I’m trying to do as much tonight as I can.” She began to eat, quickly but neatly.

The duke said nothing more for a while, but poured juice for himself. When she had devoured nearly half of what he’d set before her, Sandry took a breath and sat back. Her uncle was gazing through the doors that opened onto the balcony. The smoke that came in on the night breeze didn’t seem to bother him.

There was something she wanted to ask. “Would you have been able to do much for Gold Ridge? Or would it have been bad, if we hadn’t found the copper?”

He didn’t turn his head, but his eyes shifted in her direction.

“It’s good we found the copper,” Sandry answered herself. Many people said they found her great-uncle impossible to fathom, but she rarely had trouble guessing his thoughts.

“My treasury is perilously low,” he admitted. With a sigh, he turned to face her. “Damages from the earthquake and pirate attacks drained off my surplus cash, and the funds I have must be spread through not just Gold Ridge, but all of the northlands. With copper being mined here once again, it can be traded for supplies—if they can get enough from the ground. There is little time before winter closes these mountains in.”

Peering in a covered dish, Sandry discovered a pudding and began to eat it with a good will. “I’m glad we’ve been able to help, Uncle.”