Rosethorn closed her eyes briefly. Briar felt tendrils of her power spread at lightning speed, weaving themselves in with the thousand lives on the other side of the tiled wall. He’d heard Rosethorn express dislike for Crane’s greenhouse so often that it was almost funny to know she was getting strength from it now.

“It’s still not the same as plants living and fading in their normal season,” Rosethorn muttered, as if she had read Briar’s mind.

“It is for those that flower all year in hotter climes,” retorted Crane. “They are not even aware they are not in their home jungles.”

Rosethorn rested her head on her hands. Now that she wasn’t trying to pretend she felt normal, Briar could see how worn she was. For a moment a terrible fear rose in his heart. Quickly he thrust it into the very darkest corner of his mind.

Appealing to Rosethorn’s own Green Man and Mila of the Grain, he thought, Please, gods, keep her safe.

Crane and Tris returned to their work and Briar to his, though the boy kept one eye on Rosethorn. She sat at her own table, writing notes and tinkering with the tray she had been working on. She seemed determined to finish it, and Crane would not protest an activity that kept her quiet as they waited for word from Lark.

The Hub clock was chiming one in the afternoon when the word came in the form of Lark herself. Briar sighed with relief as she walked past him. Lark glanced at him and winked, then took Rosethorn’s hand. “I have special passes signed by Moonstream and permission to take you back to Discipline, as long as you’re freshly robed and masked after we leave here,” she said briskly. To Crane she added, “It’s not as if this thing goes easily from person to person. We’ll have gloves, and masks, and Daja’s coming—Frostpine said they were about done in any case. If you want to see my passes, you’ll have to come out to look at them—I couldn’t bring them through your washroom.”

“I trust you, Lark,” he said. “If you will now take her away, so we may get some real work done—?”

Onini bless me, thought Briar, calling on the goddess of flower sellers, I think he’s teasing Rosethorn. No, he can’t be!

Rosethorn stiffly got to her feet. “Just one thing, Crane,” she said, an impish look in her eyes. She put a drop from an amber-colored vial on the tip of one gloved finger and drew a straight line down the cover on the first well in each row on her tray. They began to shimmer green at their bottoms. Slowly the light expanded and rose, until it filled each well, and flowed together on the spaces between them. “Here’s your third key.” Lark tried to put an arm around her friend’s waist, but Rosethorn shook her head. “I can walk—I’m just a bit achy.” To Briar she said, “Will you do as I asked? Will you stay here?”

Briar looked from her to Crane and Tris. If she’s got Sandry and Lark and Daja tending her, she’ll be all right, he realized. I can do her more good with Crane, helping him track down the cure.

Reluctantly he nodded.

“That’s my boy,” said Rosethorn. With Lark, she walked out of the workroom.

“Well,” Crane remarked, and sighed. “We’ll need to change things. Osprey,” he called, raising his voice so she could hear it from the other workroom. “Who among your crew of professional jesters would you trust to run things in your place?”

Osprey stuck her head through the doorway. “In my place? Sir?”

“I think I really must have you in here,” Crane told her. “You will do research during this crisis after all. Who will be effective in the outer workroom?”

Osprey turned. “Dedicate Acacia?”

Crane sighed gustily. Osprey looked back at him. “Trust me, he’ll do fine.”

Her teacher flapped a limp hand. “He had better. Give him your instructions, and then let us get busy. There is much to do.”

12

As the Hub clock struck nine, Dedicate Acacia, a young man whose blue-black skin was accented by the pale, undyed material of his mask, robe, and cap, came to the doorway. He shifted from one foot to the other nervously.

“Honored Dedicate, we must close,” said Acacia. “Actually, we are an hour late to close. I—”

“No,” protested Briar fiercely. “We can’t stop now! Rosethorn’s sick—we have to keep working!”

“You can’t,” Acacia said gently. “No living thing could survive the cleansing steam. And everyone is weary.”

“Tired people make mistakes,” Crane informed him. “If you have not learned that before now, commit it to memory.”

Briar put stoppers in jars, furious. All the others could think of was supper and bed. Rosethorn was in trouble, might die, because they didn’t care enough to really bear down and do the job.

A hand gripped his wrist as he was about to slam the door to the additives cupboard. “Stop it,” Osprey told him very quietly, green eyes blazing over her mask. “You think Rosethorn’s the only one in danger? Crane needs rest, what little he takes. He’s up till all hours, reading those blasted notes and thinking of new ideas, and then he’s here at dawn. So calm down and tell everyone good night.”

She’s right, Tris said through their magic. Briar had thought she was busy tidying up. He should have known she would hear so intense a discussion. Did you stop to think what happens if Crane gets sick?

Briar froze.

You didn’t, Tris commented. She had turned to look at him. Think about it now, and let’s go wash. My eyeballs are dancing.