As long as this is together, we’re together, she told herself. Even if we aren’t in the same house, we’re still one.
Briar spent the rest of his first afternoon in quarantine boiling, then hanging up to dry, the cloths used to tend Flick. She was less alert as the afternoon wore on, dozing more or just staring at the ceiling. By sunset Briar almost missed the chores he would have had at Discipline Cottage—they would have been a way to pass time. In Sotat, those of Deadman’s District who’d been unfortunate enough to be healthy and quarantined in an epidemic had said it was the most boring part of their lives. As far as Briar could see by that first day’s end, they had told the absolute truth. Only the thought of Rosethorn’s wrath kept him from finding a way to escape Urda’s House.
Before he went to bed, he mind-spoke with all three of the girls. Sandry and Tris were not happy that he and Daja were gone. When Briar complained of boredom, Sandry rapped back, Good. Pick a birthday.
Will you stop this birthday folly? he demanded. There’s other stuff on my mind just now!
You said you were bored, Daja said. Either you’re bored and need something to think about, or you’re too busy to be bored.
Vexed with them, he went to sleep and dreamed of the last plague to hit Hajra. It was cholera, “the dung disease,” as they called it. People danced wildly in the street. In the dream he didn’t want to dance, but was about to join in anyway, when a bright, steady light shone on his face, waking him.
Rosethorn was seated at Flick’s bed, next to his: she had placed her light-stone on the shelf that ran along the wall behind the cots. When Briar sat up, she said quietly, “Get all the sleep you can. You’ll need it.”
Instead Briar swung his legs out from under the blanket. “What’s the gab?” he asked, keeping his voice low.
“I wish you would go back to talking like a real person.” Rosethorn blotted Flick’s face with a wet cloth.
“He is talking like a real person,” croaked Flick. “Nobody in the Mire talks like you.”
“Briar, go to bed,” insisted Rosethorn. “We’ll have plenty to do in the morning. Have some more willowbark tea, Flick.”
Briar lay down again, wrapping himself in his blanket. We don’t know this pox is a killer, he told himself firmly. Plenty get smallpox or measles and live. Maybe this pox is just a weak measle.
Even if it is a killer, Flick will make it. Rosethorn can save anybody.
4
Dawn was a bare gleam in the sky when Tris stumped downstairs. Lark was still abed, her door closed. Sandry was coming in from the well with a full bucket, her sleep-tousled brown hair at all angles. Little Bear, sprawled across the threshold to Briar’s room, lifted his head and whined at Tris.
“Just how I feel,” replied Tris, her voice low. “Do you want to go out?”
The dog got to his feet and went to the front door, sniffing it as Tris crossed the big room. To her surprise, Little Bear started to growl.
“Now what?” she demanded, flinging the door wide. A tall, lanky man in a black-bordered yellow habit stumbled over the sill: it seemed he had been leaning on the door. Tris and Little Bear jumped out of the way as the dedicate went sprawling. The dog barked hysterically, the fur along his shoulders standing upright. Sandry looked up drowsily, shook her head, and continued the exacting work of pouring water from bucket to kettle.
“I hate dogs.” The newcomer rolled onto his back and half sat, bracing himself on his elbows.
“What in Mila’s name—?” demanded Lark, coming out in her nightgown. She looked at the man and sighed, combing her fingers through her short curls. “Hello, Crane,” she said wryly. “Just in time for breakfast.” She returned to her room, closing the door.
The first dedicate and chief mage of the Air Temple arched dark, thin brows at Tris. “Will you control the animal?” he asked, his voice wintry. “I should hate to rise and instigate a bout of fierceness.”
Tris sighed and gripped Little Bear’s collar. “Down,” she said firmly.
Little Bear sat. He continued to growl deep in his throat as Dedicate Crane pulled his long arms and legs together and got to his feet. He was the kind of man who never just stood, but draped himself on air. His expressive hands always dangled from the wrists, as if they were too elegant to disappear into his pockets. Crane had a long face and a long nose, a small, pursed mouth, and weary brown eyes. Even his black hair, cut earlobe-length and brushed back, drooped.
Tris rubbed her nose, eyeing the man suspiciously. Briar’s shakkan had belonged to Crane originally—the boy had stolen it from Crane’s greenhouse. It meant the first meeting between Crane and the four had been unpleasant. Later they had discovered that Rosethorn and Crane were rivals in plant magic. “What were you doing?” asked the redhead. “Leaning on the door?”
Up went the eyebrows; Crane’s eyes ran over her chubby form. “One does expect a modicum of manners in the young,” he remarked drily.
“Good for one,” retorted Tris. “If you wanted manners, you should have come after I had my tea.”
“I’m brewing as fast as I can,” Sandry informed her with a yawn, placing the kettle on the fire. “Why don’t you take Little Bear out?”
Tris obeyed while Sandry fetched cream and honey and placed them on the table. Crane had seated himself there without a word. Unaware of Sandry’s gaze, he had lowered his face into his hands and was rubbing his eyes. The young noble suddenly wondered when he had slept that night, or even if he had.