Tris's smile was only a bit sour. "Even you couldn't eat all the food you'd steal from Gorse with a spell like that."

"I don't think I'd get away with it - Gorse knows whenever anybody's in that kitchen, no matter how mad it gets in there. Still, it'd be worth a try." After a moment's thought he added, "It was just weird to be seeing anyone using that kind of spell at all. At least now I know why."

"Sorry," replied Tris. "How was I to know Niko's spell was catching? Listen - you want to work on reading while you shred that bark?" She had begun to teach him how to read a few days before, and was surprised to find how much she liked it.

Briar's response was good for her vanity: he promptly dragged his stool and his willow bark over, then fetched a big slate and a piece of chalk. "First letter," he said, perching on his stool.

She wrote "A" on the black slate.

"A. Air, all-heal, Astrel, alder, animal. Followed by B."

Tris chalked the letter in.

He grinned. "Briar! Also Bit, berry, balm, bayberry, basil. Next letter's C..."

"Sandry." A cup touched her lips; she drank, tasting water flavoured with lemon peel. Taking a breath, she tried to blink away the spell-pattern, feeling giddy. She and Lark had eaten at midday, and gone right back to work.

The cup pressed against her lips again. This time she took it in her hands, and drank the water in quick sips. When it was empty, she placed it on the table among heaped billows of thin cloth.

Looking at her work, Sandry frowned. She could see what Lark meant about this kind of weaving. It was too loose in some places, and too thick in others. There were gaps. She thrust her fingers through two of them, and sighed.

"It won't matter, with bandages." Lark stood beside the girl. It had been she who had called Sandry from her weaving trance. "There's always a layer on top or under, to catch leaks. You need to rest now, though. You're scaring our helpers." Sandry looked around, but the novices were missing. "They just took a load to the storerooms."

Sandry's blue eyes met Lark's smiling brown ones. "Do I scare them?" she whispered, rusty-voiced.

"A little. It's not that important - novices always need toughening up before they take their vows. They have to get used to powerful workings sometime. And you have company." She pointed to the open door.

A man in a sombre brown tunic and breeches stood there, stripping off riding gloves. The sun gleamed on his shaved head, throwing his fleshy face partly into shadow. His brown eyes were set deep over a hawk-like nose and wide, firm mouth. Broad-shouldered, heavily muscled, he wore command like a cloak. Meeting Sandry's eyes, he moved into the room and smiled. The shadow was gone; from a powerful and threatening figure, he changed into a pleasant, middle-aged man.

Half-stumbling - how long had she been working? - she curtsied, and smiled back. "Uncle, I'm sorry!" she greeted Duke Vedris, ruler of Emelan. "I didn't know you were here."

He walked over and kissed her cheeks, as she kissed his. "A brief visit only, to meet with Honoured Moonstream about the watchtowers that exploded." His voice was soft and elegant, the kind that people would strain to hear. He nodded towards the heaps of linen. "You've been very busy."

"I'm helping Lark." She offered him a chair. "We have tea, or fruit juice, if you'd like some."

Smiling, he shook his head. "I'm full of tea from the Hub. In any case, I can only stay briefly - I must return home by dark. Dedicate, please, sit," he told Lark.

"Actually, I'm going to let you and Sandry visit in private," Lark said, going to the door. "I hope you don't mind."

The Duke nodded. Lark bowed - dedicates weren't required to kneel or curtsy to nobles - and left them.

Vedris reached over, and tugged one of Sandry's braids lightly, teasing her. "I'm glad to see you've recovered from your experiences during the earthquake. From what you and Niko said in your letters, it was quite dramatic."

"It was dramatic enough, I suppose." Sandry shuddered. "I'm lucky my friends were with me."

"As they were fortunate that you were there," pointed out the Duke. "And what kind of work is this you're doing?"

She explained, showing him the finished rolls of cloth waiting for transportation to a storeroom. The sheer amount still in the room startled her - and she knew that more had already been taken to storage. A little awed, she stared at her fingers. It was so easy. That didn't seem right; since she was new to this, shouldn't it cost more, to order thread to weave itself? She glanced at Lark's work. Even done this way, Lark's cloth was tighter and finer than hers.

"What strange turns life takes," the Duke murmured, rubbing his naked scalp as he examined Sandry's bandages. "My nephew and his wife were sweet, but I cannot deny they were totally useless." He held up a hand to cut off her protest. "My dear, they lived for their own pleasure, doing nothing to help those whose work gave them the money to do so. You, on the other hand - I have a feeling that you may achieve enough in your lifetime to make up for the emptiness of theirs."

She agreed - that was the worst part. She just couldn't bring herself to say as much aloud. "Aren't you being awfully hard on them?"

"Of course I am," he replied, brown eyes gleaming with amusement. "I'm a mean old pirate chaser whose life's work is to be hard on others." He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. "I'm getting too old for this, Sandrilene."