"The drainage—"
"I'll have someone dig a channel. It'll be fine."
I'm standing here working the cart straps while she watches. Hands working leather through the buckles without looking down.
"Fine. Here."
"Mel." Kestria watching her with the expression that means she sees everything. "You should start on the paste. Before the petals lose potency."
"Right. Yes. The paste." Gone. Basket against her chest. "I need to—the processing area. Set up by my dwelling. Crushing station, water, containers—did I bring containers? I brought containers. The clay ones with the wax seals. And the mortar, I need the—"
"I'll bring the other baskets," Kestria offers.
"Good. Yes. Thank you." She's walking backward now. On uneven ground. My hand twitches at my side because if she falls—
She doesn't fall.
"Tell Dara to find me if she wants to learn the crushing technique. And I need clean water—stream water, not standing water. And cloth for straining. And—"
"Go, Mel."
She goes.
Walking away from the cart and the goats and me. Talking to herself already—paste, containers, processing, Dara, cloth for straining. Hands gesturing at nothing, hair come loose. Purple smudges on her forehead.
I don't move until she's gone.
Chapter 18
The petals are losing color.
I can see it—the purple edges fading toward gray where the air's been at them too long. Six hours. That's the window. I said it myself, back at the field, and now I'm sitting cross-legged outside my dwelling with baskets spread around me and my hands won't sort fast enough.
Purple-edged. White. Bruised—discard. White. Purple-edged, good deep color, keeper.
Behind me, Keer Jr. is doing the I am awake and therefore everyone must suffer scream from whatever temporary cage they shoved him in. Good. Stay there. The goats are bleating—someone's trying to move them, I can hear hooves on packed dirt and a voice I don't recognize saying something about rope and I should help, I should go help because those goats are my responsibility and nobody here knows the first thing about—
The petals. The petals are losing color.
This one's perfect—deep blue bleeding into violet, high concentration, makes the strongest paste. I set it in the clay bowl with the others and reach for the next stem.
Kestria drops the second basket at my feet. "That's thelast one."
"Thank you. Did someone water the goats?"
"Rhen's doing it."
"And the chickens—"
"In the cages. They're fine. Everyone's fine." She crouches next to me. "You're not fine."
"I'm sorting."
"You're sorting at a speed that suggests emotional distress."
"I'm sorting at a speed that suggests a six-hour potency window. Which is a real thing. Which I told everyone about. Which is why I'm here and not over there helping with the animals, which I should be doing, because nobody knows—"
"Mel." Her hand on my wrist. "The animals are handled. Sort."
