"I don't think so," Becca said, following the old woman down the path toward the drying shed. "You could have struck your head on the rock, and that would have been serious."

"Serious for the rock, maybe," Sonet said, dryly, and pulled open the shed door, motioning Becca in before her.

Just over the threshold, Becca paused to twist the pin at her throat and shrug out of the cloak with a practiced motion. She caught it, one-handed, as it fell off her shoulders, and hung it on the hook before moving across the room to her usual place. By the time she was comfortably seated on the stool next to the worktable, Sonet had a pot in her hand and a look in her eye.

Sighing, Becca dutifully turned her cheek.

The salve went on cool, immediately leaching the fire from the sting.

"With luck, your lady mother will never know you had a mishap." The relief apparent in the herb woman's voice was comical, and Becca laughed.

"Or she would surely come down here with the largest carving knife in Cook's supply and gut you," she said.

"I don't put it past her, I don't, though she's a fair lady. More likely that she'd take down my poor bitirrn, which I'd rather she wouldn't, because it does have its uses, ill-natured and spiteful as it may otherwise be."

Bitirrn bark was a powerful painkiller, Becca knew, and a few drops of bitirrn berry cordial brought sleep to the most restless patient. Unfortunately, the trees were often sickly, even in the wild, so most herbalists used the less powerful, but hardier aleth to relieve pain, and poppy-laced wine to bring the fretful to slumber.

"Well then, I'll just have to say that I walked into a fence post," Becca said, "and spare both the herbalist and the plant."

"She's not likely to believe that," Sonet said, turning to put the pot away in its place. "Mint tea?"

"Please," said Becca, and smiled.

Sonet turned to the brazier and the flask bubbling there. She measured tea into the chipped teapot, poured boiling water from the flask and set it back on the brazier.

"Well, then, what brings you out in the misty morning time?"

Becca laughed. "You make it sound as if I'm here at c.o.c.k crow! I a.s.sure you that the hour is quite respectable!"

"Well, of course it is, which is why you've come with your sister, or your maid, or with his lordship's blessing?"

"Sonet, you know Caro doesn't walk out until the mist has dried and her skirts are not at risk-and that I have no maid! As for Father's blessing-he never comes down before midday, by which time I would surely find you awash in those in need of your skill and no time to spare for a novice's questions!" Becca tipped her head, studying the side of her friend's face as she poured tea into mismatched cups.

"If it will ease you," she said, more seriously. "Mother knows I've come."

Sonet's jaw relaxed, and she showed a full smile when she turned to give Becca her cup. "That's well, then," she said. "As long as someone knows you were walking out alone, and where you were bound for."

Becca bent her head over the cup, breathing in; the scent of mint so strong her eyes teared.

"Are there brigands in the neighborhood?" she asked lightly, knowing that theirs was the safest country in the Midlands.

"Not that I've heard," Sonet said, hitching herself onto her work stool. "The problem with brigands being that no one does hear until we hear, if you understand me. It's not like they'll send 'round their card and make themselves known to the neighborhood."

Becca did her best to look stern. "I can certainly understand their unwillingness to embrace civilized behavior, if all the world begins against them." She bent her head and breathed in more steam, feeling the mint clear her head and bring her senses to tingle.

"Well," Sonet said after a moment. "And what does bring you out at this highly civilized hour, with your mother's blessing on you?"

Becca looked up. "It occurred to me last evening that I will be needing to transport my garden to-north. And that I need to know which of my plants require extra protection across the winter, and which might not grow at all." She paused. Sonet said nothing.

"Also, I wondered if you would know who the herbalist for the Corlands might be, so I might write and-" She stopped, silenced by the expression on Sonet's face.

"Is there no herbalist at the Corlands?" she asked slowly.

"No," Sonet replied, equally slow. "She was . . . cast out . . . some twenty years ago by the lord of the place."

Becca sat up. "But-why?"

"Well, now. He believed that the way to make room for the modern way of doing things was to cast aside all of the old ways."

"But-healing . . ." Becca began. Sonet shook her head.

"For all he was a landowner, he mistrusted the land and the gifts of the land. He believed that healing should be done by devices created by man, to serve man." Sonet cast her a sharp look. "You know yourself that this is not an unpopular belief."

Becca shivered and her withered arm ached, as if in remembered agony. Indeed she knew for her very self. When she had been freshly . . . damaged. The Earl, her father, unable to accept that she could not be repaired, had carried her to the metropolis, there to place her into the hands of one Sir Farraday, who had strapped her to a table, wrapped her ruined arm in wire, and subjected her to course after course of "electric therapy."

She had screamed and wept, begging him to stop, but he would not. He had been sincerely moved by her distress, and it was with tears in his eyes that he urged her to courage, swearing that the electrically induced spasms were, indeed, strengthening the atrophied muscles; that when the therapy was done, she would stand up whole and beautiful.

He had lied.

She had arisen from the therapy ill and raving, her arm burned and useless; utterly unresponsive. Sir Farraday had wept, and begged her pardon, promising to contact her when he had discovered the error in his calculations, so that she might return to him, and be healed.

Vastly disappointed, and placing the blame for the cure's failure squarely upon her, Father had taken her back home and left her to Mother, and to Sonet.

It had been Sonet who had devised the painful exercises that, bit by bit, won her back some small amount of movement and dexterity. It had been Sonet who made sure that she did those exercises, pain notwithstanding, and who rejoiced with her over every inch of gain.

Here and now, sitting safe in Sonet's workplace, Becca sipped mint tea, and pushed the past out of her mind.

"Perhaps this lord should try one of those devices himself," she said, her voice tart despite the soothing effects of the tea.

"He did," Sonet said softly. "Eventually. When he was ill and dying. It might be that the devices gave him a few more minutes, or a few less. I could have done nothing better. Or worse." She looked down at her cup, raised it and sipped.

"Well," she said. "All that by way of saying there isn't an herbalist at Corlands, not that I know about. It could be that someone's moved into the village, now the old lord's been followed by his brother, who-" She bit off the end of her sentence and pressed her lips together.

Becca shook her head. "Whatever you have to say about Sir Jennet, it cannot possibly be any unkinder than d.i.c.kon's transports."

"We'll just leave it that the younger brother has his own faults, then," Sonet said. "As we all do." She drank off her tea and set the cup aside.

"There's some of your usual plants that won't survive the winters up north," she said, bringing the subject abruptly onto Becca's topic. "Fremoni won't. Feverease won't. Nor aleth."

Becca stared. "But-"

Sonet held up a hand.

"Trust the land," she said, more sternly than she was wont. "There are other plants, native to the cold, that will give you what's needful. You'll need to learn those-I have a book, somewhere . . ." She looked around absently, as if expecting to find the book floating in midair, or suspended from the drying rods that ran the length of the shed.

"Ah!" Sonet rose and crossed the room, casually reaching up to the shelf over the sorting table. She groped for a moment, then grinned. "There you are!" she grunted, as if to a playful child, and turned with a flat parcel in her hand.

"Feh! Quite a few seasons of dust on that! Good thing I had the sense to wrap it in oilskin before I set it away." She pulled a tr.i.m.m.i.n.g blade from its place and cut the cord holding the packet together while Becca slid to her feet and crossed to stand beside her.

The book that emerged from its layers of protection was well-thumbed, its cover stained and edge-worn; a field herbalist's diary.

"Made that myself when I was no older than Harin," Sonet said, naming her current apprentice, a plump and quiet girl from up-country. "Though with more sense."

"Really?" Becca eyed her teacher fondly. "Now, I find Harin very sensible, indeed, which forces me to ask, Sonet-"

"Eh?" The herb woman gave her a mock glare. "Out with it, Miss!"

"I only wonder what happened," Becca concluded, making her eyes as round and as guileless as she might.

"There's proper respect for an elder in lore," Sonet observed, shaking her head. "Well, I will own it a relief to have a serious 'prentice with me now. Makes quite a change from the last-light-minded to a fault, that girl!"

"Tempery, too," Becca agreed placidly, "and of a nature to take risks."

"Nothing so bad with risk taking," Sonet murmured, opening the cover to reveal a drawing of a leaf surrounded by dense notes. The paper was rough, the ink so vibrant a green that the letters seemed to leap from the page.

"My cold country book." The herb lady's voice was so soft it seemed she must be speaking to herself. She looked up and gave Becca a nod. "This'll be what you want."

"I-" Becca bit her lip. "Sonet?"

"Now what, Miss?"

"No-" She put her hand on the other's arm. "I just-the old Corlands lord. You were the herbalist he cast out off of his lands?"

"Younger and hotter of head," the other said mildly. "You knew I was from the north."

"I did," Becca said, "it-I just never realized . . ." She shook herself. "Well. When may I come by to copy out-"

"No sense in wasting your time copying!" Sonet interrupted. "I'm not going back to the Corlands-not at my age! You'll take this very book with you, and glad I'll be to know it's finally seeing some use."

"Take it? Sonet, I can't take-"

"You can and you will," Sonet interrupted, thrusting the item into Becca's hand. "It's your master gift."

Becca gaped. "I'm no master," she protested.

The old woman c.o.c.ked an eyebrow and gave her a gap-toothed grin. "Well, then, Miss Beauvelley, I'm forced to ask-"

"Don't!" Becca laughed, and cradled the book against her breast, defeated. "Very well-and thank you, Sonet. For-For everything."

"Pish and tosh. Now come back over and let me give you another cup."

"Thank you," Becca said again, blinking back a sudden start of tears. "That would be very pleasant."

"I plan," Becca said, reestablished on her stool, with her weak hand curled 'round a newly warmed cup. "I plan to have a busy summer, and take extra medicines, salves, tinctures and cordials with me. With luck, they will be sufficient for Sir Jennet's household and the village until I can plant . . ." She frowned slightly.

"Sir Jennet said that there is a conservatory, though in need of work. I wonder if I might not cultivate some of our usual plants."

Sonet looked thoughtful. "A conservatory . . . I'm not sure what sort of virtue would remain in the plants, removed from the land in such a way."

Becca laughed. "Of course there's land in the conservatory!"

"There is dirt in the conservatory," the herb woman snapped. "Have I wasted all my teaching?"

Deliberately, Becca sipped tea. Sonet's tone had struck a spark from her own temper. There was a time when the spark would have become a conflagration, but Becca had learned how to manage her temper, since the accident. She knew that this was not patience, but no one else seemed to.

Not even Sonet.

"Eh, well; I'm a snarly old woman-pay it no mind." Sonet c.o.c.ked an eyebrow. "My advice is, if you're going to be repairing the conservatory, you'll do best to have yourself an orangery, and plant in chard, beans, tomatoes. The house will welcome fresh fruits and vegetables in winter."

"You're right, of course," Becca murmured, and finished her tea.

"Nay, now. I can tell when you're agreeing only to sweeten me up!" Sonet shook her head with a wry smile. "Take the counsel of your plants and do as seems best to you. I'm proud to say that you were my student, and you'll make those in the Corlands a grand and giving lady, which is something they've sore lacked."

Becca felt her stomach clench, and took a deep, calming breath. "I will do my best in the Corlands," she said softly, and took another breath before slipping off the stool.

"I did promise Mother I'd try to be back before Father came down," she said, apologetically.

Sonet waved the apology away with a large rough hand as she came to her feet and moved over to the door. She pulled Becca's cloak from the hook and draped it 'round her shoulders.

"Thank you," Becca said again, twisting the brooch closed before stretching high on her toes to kiss the weathered, fragrant cheek.

"Take good care, Sonet."

"And you as well, child. And you, as well."

Chapter Four.

Becca walked quickly along the track, shoulders hunched as if against a chill breeze. It was a pleasant, tree-lined way, normally one of her favorite walks, but Becca had no thought for trees, or for the gilderlarks trilling from the side of the path; she barely noted the moist scent of new leaf, or the faint sweetness of the springtime's first honeycups.

No, Becca was thinking of the Corlands, and what she might . . . really . . . hope to find there.

She had read the almanacs; she knew that in the Corlands winter came early and stayed late; that high summer, which often lingered lazily into what was rightly fall here in the Midlands, might in the Corlands be a matter of a week or two.

She had known all that, had expected that she would need to discover new plants to replace those that pined for the sun after an absence of a day or two, and those others that were too fragile to transport. Yet to hear Sonet's calm a.s.sertion that the oldest friends in her medicine box-feverease! fremoni! aleth!-could not withstand the climate to which she was bound-that gave pause.

Pause, indeed.

She had no illusions regarding her own frailty; she knew herself to be strong beyond what was strictly ladylike. But a land so inhospitable that weedy aleth, which set down roots in gravel and flourished, sun or shade, could not survive it-what toll might such a land take upon her?

Biting her lip, she walked even more quickly, as if she might outpace these disturbing thoughts. Plainly, she needed to question Sir Jennet more closely regarding his land and the conditions she could expect to discover there. Perhaps, indeed, she should write to him-though that would be shockingly forward. Becca sighed. She would ask Mother, she promised herself, and if writing was found to be out of the question, then she would surely have ample time to talk with him at Caro's dance, in just eleven days' time. No, she corrected herself, that must be ten now, unless Caro's crowing at the calendar yestereve was mistaken.