Finally, Mary leans back, beads of sweat glistening on her forehead.

But Abby’s wounds have not fully closed. “She’s not done, is she?”

“She is.”

“But Abby’s still bleeding!”

“Look at the herbs.”

Beside Mary’s knees, the bundles of plants and herbs have turned withered and black. The moist roots have dried and curled into small, sooty fists. “I don’t understand.”

“Wildcrafters borrow power from their ancestors in order to use the energy of the plants. That power is finite, and so is the living energy of plants, as is Mary’s ability to operate as a vessel, as with all crafters of her branch.” Illustrating Patricia’s words, Mary herself sways on her knees. Louisa rushes to her side to help steady her.

I shake my head. This is not what I’ve seen William do. He can close wounds fully, seal them up and heal them almost overnight. When I think of him and Sel and the other Awakened Scions, their power seems to have no limit. Why? Why not Mary’s? “But Abby’s still in pain.”

“She’s saved Abby from deadly infection. Abby’s body will heal the rest of the way. Perhaps if another Wildcrafter were nearby, but even then, the ancestors may not allow a double treatment. We can’t turn them on and off like a tap. They allow us to use their power, after all.”

“Bless you, Mary,” Abby whispers, her voice drowsy with exhaustion. “Bless you.”

“Of course,” Mary soothes as Louisa helps her to her feet. “Rest now.”

“Mary, stay,” Louisa says, gesturing over to the blankets I’d seen earlier. “You need rest too. The ancestors used you up, I expect.”

Mary nods in agreement, her eyes half-lidded. “All right.” Louisa guides her to the far end of the cabin, walking right past us, and helps lower Mary to the smooth clay floor.

“What did you say earlier?” Patricia tugs on my hand. “About Mary’s power?”

I watch Mary settle under Lousia’s blankets and feel an urge to give her my sweatshirt, my socks. Anything that could help her or Louisa or Abby feel warmer. “Mage flame. I saw her gather aether—root—into her palms before she healed Abby. It’s the same color of aether surrounding the Unsung Founders Memorial.”

She moves into my field of vision, eyes round. “You can see root?”

Her question catches me off guard. “You can’t?”

A mixture of wonder and confusion transforms her face. “I feel it, but I don’t see it. A Reader or a Medium or a Prophet could, perhaps, if she asked the ancestors to lend her their eyes. But never for more than a short time.” Her expression shifts. “Who taught you these words, Bree?”

I don’t want to lie. “The Order of the Round Table.”