She was dismissed. Bowing, one hand pressed to her heart so Lady Grie might not doubt her sincerity, Barl took her leave.

On his knees in his vegetable patch, weeding, Remmie glanced up. “You’re lucky Lady Grie is so understanding. If she’d taken offence at your outburst…”

“Well, she didn’t,” Barl said, snappish, and brushed damp dirt from a filched baby carrot. “Besides, she’s the lucky one. That clock will have her mother in raptures. Which works well for me, I must say.” She crunched the carrot. “Her approval of my work will keep me sweet with Arndel.”

“In other words, you’re using her.”

She wriggled a little, trying to get comfortable on the upturned tin bucket she was using for a seat. “We’re using each other. And what does that matter, if we both get what we want?”

Dubious, Remmie sat back on his heels. “And what is it you want, Barl?”

“To put this upset behind me.” And while it wasn’t the whole truth, it was still true. She wasn’t lying to Remmie. He’d never be able to throw that accusation in her face. “For Arndel to recognise my worth to him. To have my crystal acknowledged by the Guild.” But that would have to wait until the College’s kicked-up dust settled. “And I want to explore my gifts as an artisan.”

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.