"So talk," urged Briar as Rosethorn examined the nestling.

Since Niko had given no orders to keep what she had seen to herself, Tris explained about looking at the past, and described what they had seen. "I think maybe five people were killed up there, counting the smugglers and that drunk guard," she finished. "You could tell where the dead had been."

Rosethorn went over to a section of shelves. Reaching high overhead, she got down a slender bottle. Like most things in the room it gleamed silver white at the edges of Tris's vision, casting more light than even the remains of the spells on Bit Island. Tris rubbed her eyes; it was bad enough that the South Gate and the tower of Winding Circle's Hub had nearly blinded her - she hadn't expected to see so much magic, or such powerful magic, in the cottage where she lived.

"So Niko had you call up a vision of the past? That's a major working," Rosethorn commented, unstoppering her bottle. "I need one of the thinnest hollow reeds we keep in that drawer." She pointed, and Briar obeyed the order.

"Niko did the spell-casting," replied Tris. "I just gave him my strength. He said I needn't come to Pirate's Point - we couldn't do it twice in one day."

She watched intently as Rosethorn accepted a short, hollow reed from Briar. Thrusting it into the open bottle, Rosethorn covered the opening in the dry end with a fingertip. Bringing it over to the nestling, she let a couple of drops fall from it into the bird's mouth. The youngster closed his beak, wheezing - then sat up straighter, and opened his beak again. Rosethorn gave him another two drops.

"I have to be careful with this," she told her audience, putting the reed aside. "It's like drugs that give extra vigour, or dull pain - he'd come to need it and not eat anything else. You have to give nestlings food that's close to what they get from their parents, or foods that are normal substitutes."

Rosethorn eyed Tris, delicate brows still knitted in a frown. The girl forced herself to meet that very sharp gaze without looking away. "You understand you might work yourself sick, and he'll still die," Rosethorn said at last.

Tris nodded. "Niko told me the same thing. I want to try anyway."

"He won't thank you, either, if he lives. Starlings - that's what this is - starlings are annoying birds. Their fledglings shriek when they're hungry. If they're old enough to walk and fly, they peck their parents until they're fed."

"There's gratitude for you," Briar commented with a grin.

"What must I do?" Tris wanted to know. "Tell me, and I'll do it."

"Hm. For now, feed him every fifteen minutes, until I tell you to change. Briar, you're going to see Dedicate Gorse -"

He clapped his hands. Next to Lark and Rosethorn, Winding Circle's chief cook was his favourite dedicate, a reliable source of both meals and treats.

"Come right back" Rosethorn added sternly. "Slate and chalk, please."

He found both, and gave them to her.

"Warm goat's milk - goat, mind, cow's milk is too hard for them to digest - with a dab of honey for sweetening, at first. You can get those from our cold-box," Rosethorn told Tris. "Heat the milk in a small pan. Get it warm enough that a drop on your wrist feels warm, not hot. If it burns you, it'll burn him."

Tris ran to do it.

"Get one of the cup-shaped baskets, and clean straw," Rosethorn ordered Briar. "Put them on the counter." She finished writing to Gorse as the boy found the things she needed. Giving him the slate, she said, "Don't run in this heat, but don't dawdle."

Briar nodded, and left.

Tris was quick to put goat's milk and honey to heat on the hearth. Unlike the other three, who made a big job and a mess out of basic tasks, Tris had been doing household chores since she was tall enough to see over tables. Each family member with whom she had lived had made it clear that she was to earn her keep. She would never admit it, but these days, with lessons in magic and meditation to fill her days, she rather liked the quiet routines of dusting, washing and even the mild amount of cooking done in the cottage.

When the goat's milk was just warm, she carried it into Rosethorn's workshop.

"Put it there," she was ordered. "There" was a woven straw pad. Rosethorn was tucking clean straw into a basket with a rounded bottom. It sat in a wooden frame that kept it from rolling on to its side. "I made these a few years ago, when I saw that even if I found no birds, someone else would bring orphan nestlings to me. They need support on their chests and legs - a basket with a flat bottom and straight sides is no good."

Tris only stared at the woman. Since coming to Discipline she had feared Rosethorn's sharp temper and sharper tongue. Lark and Rosethorn were the best of friends, and Briar loved his teacher, but Tris couldn't begin to guess why. Was this the face of Rosethorn that Lark and Briar saw, when no one else was looking?

"H-how do you know so much about birds?" she stammered. "Do - do you have magic with them?"

Rosethorn eased her fingers under the nestling, who shrieked at the invasion, then lowered him into the fresh nest. "Don't ever squeeze them. Their bones, even their beaks, are very soft yet."

"I'll remember."

"Not everyone who loves a thing has magic with it, you know," Rosethorn said, dipping a finger in the milk. "Very good - exactly the right heat. Get that clean reed. Do what I did with the potion - give him just a drop or two at a time."