Rosethorn never went to bed that night; she saw no real point. Instead she had spent the dark hours before midnight coaxing oils from the lothlóre flowers that she had found growing behind her well. Shortly before midnight, she changed into her clean habit and left for the Hub.
When she arrived, she eased the door open and slipped in. Glimmering shadows from the banked coals of the kitchen fire cast the room in a demonic glow. Rosethorn shook off a feeling of unease and padded across the tiles. There was a whisper of fabric behind her, and then a rather large dedicate stood at her side. Rosethorn gasped and thumped into the side of the oven.
Dedicate Gorse caught her arm and pulled her back. "My dear duck, why didn't you go through the Heartfire doors?" he rumbled.
"I don't know, I just. . . didn't feel like it, I suppose."
Gorse smiled knowingly. "Eventually, everything that has happened will come together in a great pattern. You'll see the sense of it someday, just not today." He pushed her towards the door to the inside of the Hub. "If you come back after your rounds, I'll have something for you."
Rosethorn smiled tiredly and slipped into the Heartfire room. Several other dedicates were already there, so Rosethorn quietly lit her candle and knelt on the dirt floor near the fire. She took a deep breath for seven counts, held it, breathed out, and began her meditation. Her magic flared around her in a bright starburst, then swirled into her core.
Across the room, Crane watched her carefully. The whole thing was quite idiotic. Arguing about people in the Mire. Of course she was right, I see it now. She's always right. Too proud to accept any apology, though. She can't forgive me even if she wanted to. Sadness pinched his face. She's a beautiful creature, but she can't see herself. Always seeking to be better, stronger, quicker, more generous, more clever. She can't see that she's already the best.
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