Rosethorn’s only reply was an absentminded, “Where are the notes to date?”
“Peachleaf?” asked Crane drily. “Did you make a second copy as I requested?”
The Water dedicate looked around frantically, then rummaged in the cabinet where she kept her supplies. Crane went over to complain and to supervise.
Waiting for him, Briar read the instructions on the slate with care. He then picked up the numbered vials and matched them to the wells with the same number on the tray before him.
You’d have a real mess if you jumbled the notes for it all, he thought. No wonder Crane gets testy. Not, added Briar with a grim eye on the man, that I mean to be lambkin-meek if he gets testy with me. In a box next to the rack of additives he found measuring tools, pens, ink, and squares of parchment for labels. A note was stuck to the inside of the lid, with the instructions: Give everything to washers at end of day!
“Finally!” Crane announced as Peachleaf held up a sheaf of papers. He passed them to Rosethorn and came back to Briar. “Attend,” he began.
“Osprey showed me. I just follow the slate,” Briar said, cutting off the lecture before Crane could give it. He got to work, adding liquids and powders in the proper wells as he kept hands and arms clear of the tray itself. Though he’d never had to do this particular job before, Rosenthorn’s demands for her medicines and herbal mixtures were every bit as precise as Crane’s. Briar moved from bottle or jar to tray steadily, barely hearing Crane’s fusses about being careful and watching where his fingers went. Once he finished the entire tray, he opened an inkwell, took a reed pen, and carefully noted the date on parchment labels glued to the edge of the tray.
“Well?” he said, looking up.
Crane’s eyebrows went down. Briar figured the dedicate was scowling under his mask. At last Crane pointed to a final note on the slate: Variation L. Briar wrote that under the date on the labels.
“Cover it,” Crane said tartly, “then shelve it.”
Briar slid the tray into a space on the left-hand shelves. He grinned evilly at Crane, who couldn’t see beneath the boy’s mask. “I learnt steadiness picking locks in Baghouses,” Briar said airily.
Someone—he suspected it was Peachleaf—snickered. Crane only raised an eyebrow at him and said, “Next tray.”
He stood over Briar for three more trays, watching every step. When Osprey brought supplies from the outer workroom, Crane made Briar refill his bottles and jars, then slip the numbered labels back on. Finally he went to his own table and got to work.
Off and on Briar would peer at him, amazed at the variety of the magics Crane used. The man treated the contents of the trays with his own liquids and powders, each of them so powerful that their containers shone like miniature suns when Briar looked at them for very long. He could see magic glint on the surface of the many different lenses that Crane used to examine the trays. Even the air around Crane was filled with traces and sprinkles of silvery magic that flared whenever he spoke a fresh spell.
At midmorning Briar placed a finished tray on the shelf. Feeling he’d earned a short halt, the boy stretched and looked around. Peachleaf sorted through a sheaf of parchments, her hands trembling. Rosethorn continued to read Crane’s notes with the kind of concentration she normally kept for mildews and plant lice. In the outer workroom Briar could hear the soft murmur of conversation over the clink of glass and metal.
Crane drifted to Briar’s post, frowning over a sheaf of notes. When Briar turned back to his counter, Crane held up a hand, meaning for him to wait. The lanky dedicate mixed three oils from Briar’s supplies into a new bottle. The boy frowned. He could see that Crane had used marshmallow and holly oils, but he couldn’t identify the third ingredient. Reaching into the new bottle with his power, he choked.
“Mustard?” he asked, shocked. “What good will that do?”
“Are you a healer as well as a plant mage?” was the acid reply. Crane briskly tied the Number Four label to the new oil’s bottle. “You haven’t the training to understand, nor have I time to instruct you.”
Be that way, Briar thought irritably. As Crane changed the slate to read one drop instead of three for Number Four, Briar took out a clean measure. He noticed that Crane had also changed the letter of variation on the blackboard.
“I have amended—” Crane began.
“I see,” Briar interrupted, too peeved to mind his manners. “Variation M.” What’ll we do when we run out of letters? he wondered.
As the boy fetched a new tray, Crane said grudgingly, “It is my thought that essence of mustard will act to flush the disease, as the marshmallow soothes the harsh action of the mustard. The holly—”
“Fever,” Briar said promptly.
“It won’t work,” called Rosethorn. Crane twitched. Rosethorn went on, “Check your notes on the combinations you tried two days ago.”
Crane went over to her, and Briar tended his tray. The sound of rising voices broke his concentration soon afterward: Crane and Rosethorn were fighting. Peachleaf, seated too close to them for her own comfort, shrank back, face pale. Briar, noting the healthy blush in Rosethorn’s cheeks, decided she was having a good time and ignored the battle. He had completed half of the waiting trays about an hour before noon, but someone from the outer room carried in fresh ones.
“Use the old trays first,” Crane said. Briar nodded. He hated to admit it and would never say it aloud, but Crane seemed to have good reasons to do things as he did.