Briar's Book by Tamora Pierce Read Free Book Online Page B

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.
    The brows, and bloodshot eyes, rose over the screen of fingers. “You are staring,” he said, voice muffled by his hands.
    Sandry made a face and turned to get the cups. Something twinged near her heart as she gathered Lark’s, Tris’s, and her own cup and passed over those that belonged to the missing three. Last she grabbed one of the spares and placed them all on the table, then entered Rosethorn’s workroom. In a corner near the kitchen were the jars with their teas, each mixed by Rosethorn to her exacting taste. Using a dish, Sandry ladled out the morning blend, a sunny tea heavy with rosehips and bits of lemon peel. She resealed that jar and hesitated, her eyes going to the jar labeled
Endurance.
Finally she removed a spoonful, dusting it over the mound of morning blend.
    Who can’t use a little endurance in times like these? she asked as she resealed that jar. No one, that’s who. Taking the dish to the hearth, she poured the contents into the teapot strainer. Once the kettle boiled, she added water to the pot and carried it over to the table.
    Tris had returned and was seated across from Crane, slicing a loaf of fruit bread. Sandry wanted to sigh. Tris’s blue wool gown was rumpled; her wiry copper hair strained at the scarf she used to tie it away from her face. Sandry reached out and brushed her fingertips against Tris’s skirt. A touch of light skipped through the weave as the wrinkles dropped out, leaving the cloth as neat as if it had been pressed.
    “I would have thought you’d be in your workroom, Crane, not paying calls,” Lark said, emerging from her bedroom. She had combed her glossy curls and donned a green habit. The shadows under her eyes were untouched. “Who’s helping you?”
    “Some novices, a few Water Temple initiates.” Crane flapped his long fingers as if shooing the Water dedicates out of his presence. “This is not a social visit.”
    “You need to talk to Rosethorn?” inquired Lark as she sat at the table. “We could arrange it through Sandry or Tris and Briar – ”
    Crane shook his head. “This is – I mean, I – I would like to request – ”
    Lark sighed and picked up a piece of bread. “Crane, it’s too early for you to dance like a kitten. You know I’ll help you if I can.”
    Sandry passed a slice of bread to Crane, who began to pick it apart. “It’s the masks, and the gloves,” he said at last, without looking up.
    “Don’t tell me Water Temple’s short on those too,” Lark said crossly. “I swear, I’ll go to Moonstream herself – ” She stopped abruptly; Crane was shaking his head.
    “They have plenty, all with protective signs woven into them, as is standard,” he replied. “To deal with normal contagion they are