Remmie plucked another weed and shredded it. “So. You really are taking no for an answer, this time? You’ve not got some mad scheme tucked up your sleeve?”

“The only thing tucked up my sleeve is my arm.” At his look, she shook her head. “You don’t believe me?”

“I want to,” he said slowly. “Only… Barl, I know how much you want to attend the College.”

“And if wanting meant having then I’d not be here, would I? But it doesn’t, and I am, and now you’ve got what you wanted.” She shoved off the old bucket, nearly tipping it over. “I’m not stupid, Remmie. I know when I’m beaten.”

“Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to—” He rubbed the back of his hand along his jaw, smearing dirt. “Sorry. Let’s talk about something else. Does Lady Grie want you to make her another clock?”

She dug her heel into the edge of the vegetable patch. “Not yet. But soon, she said. She’ll have something for me soon.”

“There you go,” he said, smiling. “See? Things are looking up.”

Dear Remmie. He did try but, really, he’d never understand.

“Now make yourself useful,” he added, “and help me with these weeds.”

She hated weeding. She wasn’t a gardener. She loathed the damp, musty smell of compost and the scratchiness of dirt beneath her nails. But the time was fast approaching when she’d be leaving him behind.

She helped Remmie with his weeds.

The next morning, Arndel sent her back to the trade workroom.

“Mage Egin has the gripe,” he said. The glint in his eye dared her to complain. “And there are trade clocks for export to Brantone that must be done by week’s end.”

“Of course, Artisan Master,” she said, compliant. There was her Lindin crystal at home, waiting for his submission to the Guild. Give him the smallest excuse and he’d likely smash it instead. “I’ll get started right away.”

And with gritted teeth she filled in for hapless Tagget Egin.

Four days he was absent from the artisanry, him and his inconvenient gripe. Every time the trade workroom doors opened during those long four days she looked around, hoping it was Arndel with a new commission from Lady Grie. But though he often came to supervise, he always came empty-handed. On the fifth day Tagget Egin sheepishly reappeared. With scarcely concealed relief she gave him back his trade workbench and returned to her place in the smaller, specialist artisan room.

“That’s good timing,” Ibbitha greeted her. “We’ve some new commissions coming today. Master Arndel told us last night.”

New commissions. Barl felt her heart double-thud. She was so tired of trade clocks she could easily scream. Her fingers itched to make something fabulous, something beautiful. Something for Ancilla Grie. If she never again saw the makings for another tedious trade clock, she’d die happy.