Sandry looked at him, and shook her head. Even, in, a broad-brimmed hat to shed the wet he looked dignified, even solid. It was hard to think he would let anything go wrong —except, of course, it wasn’t up to him.. It was up to her.

“You couldn’t ask, for a, better night,” Oama commented drily. She turned to look at Sandry. “Pity your mate Tris isn’t here. She’d whisk all this damp off like a, maid with, a feather duster.”

Sandry had to smile. She’d seen Tris do exactly that, with the same cross expression on her face that she wore when dusting. “She might disappoint you,”

Sandry told Gama. “These days she worries a lot about not interfering with the natural order of things.”

“Exactly as I suspected,” remarked the duke. “Too much education does ruin a perfectly good mind.”

Sandry giggled as Kwaben clucked to the mules and turned them onto the path marked by the lanterns. She and the duke followed. When the cart drew to a halt, Sandry dismounted from Russet, taking the canvas package with her spindle out of her saddlebag. Robed and hatted dedicates came to take charge of the spindle and of the bottles in the cart while Sandry viewed the newest part of Winding Circle’s contribution to her working.

It was a large tent with a smaller one attached to it as a lobby. They were anchored to a single flat slab of the rock that shaped Wehen Ridge, a barrier between Winding Circle and the slums of the Mire. The bonds that held the tents to the rock glowed silver in Sandry’s vision, as did the tents themselves. They had been spelled so powerfully for protection that once more Sandry had to shape a magical veil to protect her sight.

Sandry welcome,” said a cloaked and hooded figure. It was Lark. She looked startled when she realized who come to stand next to the girl. “Your grace, you—you shouldn’t—“

The duke looked at her mildly.

“Oh, what was I thinking—of course you would come,” Lark said with a rueful smile. “But you’ll have to part company here.”

“I know it,” replied Vedris. He wrapped Sundry in a tight, warm embrace. “If you get yourself killed, I shall be very disappointed in you,” he said quietly, for her ears alone, and kissed her forehead.

Sandry attempted to smile, and gave it up when she felt her mouth wobble. “You know I try never to disappoint you, Uncle.” She turned to Lark. “Shall we start?”

Lark led her to the smaller tent and kissed her cheek. “Don’t worry about his grace,” she told Sandry quietly. “Those of us who are standing guard have a snug shelter right behind this tent. We’ll try to send him home, of course, but at least he’ll be warm and dry until then.”

“Thank you so much,” Sandry replied as she stepped into the tent. “That is good to know.”

“Hand out your clothes,” Lark said as she closed the opening. “And gods bless.”

This tent was divided in two: half was the kind of rough shower used by those who worked with the sick and wanted no taint of disease to cling to them. Sandry pulled the flap shut, then hurriedly stripped off her clothes and undid her braids. Her teeth were chattering by the time she finished.

“Lark?” she called.

Hands came through the opening in the flat. Sandry filled them with her clothes and shoes. Lark took them away.

Putting it off won’t make me any warmer, Sandry thought, shivering, as she stared at the rope pull that would start the shower. I have to be cleansed.

Drawing the gods-circle on her chest, she gave the pull a hard tug. Slats on the wooden platform that roofed this tent opened. She was doused not with buckets of water, as she had expected, but with tubs of it. She sighed in gratitude: the water was just hot enough for comfort, and warmed her nicely. It had been mixed with yarrow, agrimony, willow, and elder for cleansing and magical protection.

From the way it shone even through her closed eyes, Sandry guessed that Lark had taken the herbs from stores laid up by Briar and Rosethorn before they had left.

It was like being home at Discipline again, and comforted her just as much as it warmed her.

The slats overhead closed and Sandry waited for the tubs to be filled again.

Everyone had agreed that two rinses would serve to get all outside influences from her skin. Looking around, she saw that the tent was floored in more cloth.

Like everything else around her, it was spelled to keep bad influences out, and any stray magic she did in.

No wonder the temple-mages had needed three days to prepare—they were leaving no room for mistakes, and no chance that the un magic would escape Sandry. That made her feel better, too. Working alone, she might have forgotten something.

Instead, all she had to worry about was her spinning and the net. She prayed she could do it quickly: she wouldn’t be able to eat, drink, or leave the larger tent until her finished work was safely packed in the box that had been made for it.

“Ready again,” a voice called. Sandry yanked the rope pull, bringing the next flood of water down.

Once that was done, she opened the flap that divided the small tent in two. In the dry half, a long, sleeveless robe of undyed cotton was draped over a stand.

She put that on and. walked through into the large tent.

It was floored in cloth and secured to the rock plat form,’ with, no openings but the one she had just used. At the center was a chair and a stool on which a large, shallow iron dish, was set. The bottles of unmagic were placed by the dish. Beside, the chair was a wooden stand with sockets into which six long spools had been fitted. She also saw the box that would hold her net: it was ebony and, spelled like everything else for protection.