Disclaimer: I do not own Circle of Magic or any characters and/or places thereof; this is a work of fiction written purely for pleasure and no profit is being made from it

Lark paused the shuttle in her hand and listened. The knock at the door, which she had a few moments ago wondered if she had truly heard, came again. "Come in," she trilled, and brought the shuttle to a halt. With a clack it settled on the frame of the loom.

Before she had left her workshop, she heard the front door open and close softly. "Comas, is that you?" She hardly imagined it would be the boy to whom she had recently bid farewell. He still came to her for lessons most days or just to be near her, and at one time Lark would have worried when the boy was out too late. The sun would be setting soon, but now Comas had moved back to the boys' dormitories recently and Lark did not expect him at this hour.

In the front room, Lark saw a familiar form at the table. That quivering, level chin could belong to only one girl. "Sandry! How lovely to have you; the cottage is so empty now. There is no call to sit here in the dark, come, let's light the lamp…" Lark forced herself to trail off. She could not say how happy she was to have Sandry back, her Sandry, if only for a few hours. While she understood the calls of Sandry's new duties, it had been a quiet couple of years since those four left, and no charge had come as close to Lark's heart as Sanry still remained. "How have you been?"

The light danced shadows over Sandry's face: the girl said nothing. Lark's mouth dried with a fearless dread. Sandry was going to cry! "What is it, dear? What's happened?"

"I--I just wanted to come home," Sandry sobbed, then her shoulders began to shake and she put her head down. Lark sat beside Sandry and rubbed her back, worried. This was unlike Sandry! The girl had seen death without a tear, faced down her fear of darkness with no more than a tiny whimper. Lark knew at once that something awful must have happened.

"Well, here you are," she said. "You're home, Sandry." Her voice was dry and cool, and calming to Sandry, so much that the girl even raised her head from the table and met Lark's steady gaze.

"Oh, thank you, Lark! I didn't know where else to turn." She no longer sobbed, but tears streamed down her face. For a moment Sandry maintained her composure, then she began to tremble. "It--" she hiccuped, "it was so horrible… all I could see were the bodies in Hatar and I, I…" Sandry's hysteria mastered her again, and she had to stop speaking for a moment.

"Now, Sandry, hardly seems the time for this conversation. You're not well. Will you lie down? Your old room is empty."

"It is?" Bed seemed nice. Sleep would do her immeasurable good, the noble girl knew, and perhaps once rested she would be more sensible. "Oh, I would love that, Lark, please!"

In her old room, with its familiar, sturdy furniture surrounding her, Sandry relaxed. She doffed her slippers and left them on the ground beside the bed. Feeling ridiculously modest, she checked that the door was shut before slipping out of her riding gown, one of the frills she had become accustom to as the Duke's female counterpart, and leaving the folded gown on her desk.

In her shift, even half-covered by the brown locks now falling halfway down her back, Sandry felt naked. "Don't be silly," she told herself. "What's exposed?" Bitterly, desperately she laughed at herself and the breasts so like her nose--tiny. Briar would laugh at her, though not unkindly. Sandry would like to be laughed at. Though her tears were stoppered, she felt a writhing mass of maggots in her belly. A chuckle, not that ragged imitation but a real chuckle, would improve her disposition greatly.

Feeling terribly weak, Sandry lay down beneath the clean, homelike blankets, blew out her lone candle, and closed her eyes. The clack of Lark's loom filtered into Sandry's vision. In moments there was nothing more, just the rhythmic noise of a loom expertly manipulated by the right hands.

Half an hour later, she was sleeping still when Lark came into the room, gently touched Sandry's brow, then folded her arms over her chest in a gesture of prayer. "Mila bless," Lark whispered, and nothing more. She left as softly as she had come.

In the quiet light of the morning, Sandry dressed and made the bed. She felt silly, really, as she tucked the blankets' edges under the straw-stuffed mattress. She never cried, knowing the vulnerability tears brought. Being His Grace's companion and great-niece brought many benefits, few luxuries, many rules and much wariness.

"Lark." She found her old teacher in the front room, stirring a pot of porridge. "I… am sorry, for being so hysterical last night."

"That's all right, dear," Lark assured her. "Cut the bread, would you?" Sandry obeyed, picking up the knife Lark had left out for her to use. Applying gentle pressure to the loaf of brown bread with one hand, she began severing slices.

"I… Something my uncle said, about my father always procrastinating, reminded me of something I had chosen to forget," Sandry said, explaining nothing. Carefully she continued, "It was about Hatar. Well, it was actually more about my parents. You see, smallpox seemed to be sweeping the country like… well, like Briar at dusting: randomly and skipping large portions, but still disastrous to dust. To humans. My papa heard about a cure for smallpox, one to keep a person from becoming infected. The idea was that one tiny infection can cause your body to learn to fight the disease for ever."

Hearing Sandry's hands shake, Lark asked, "Would you set out dishes, please, Sandry? That's enough bread."

Without thinking Sandry set down the knife and gathered to plates and sets of cutlery. She knew they would not need forks, but decided to add them in for aesthetic pleasure. After all, she would be washing up. Why not include whatever she wanted?

"So, Papa tried the cure on a servant," Sandry went on. "It was expensive, but Papa wanted to be certain. Then the servant, he stayed in quarantine a long time. He decreed then that it was a miracle. My mama and I had smallpox within the week from this cure; Papa was too busy, but swore he would have it later. We were kept alone, quarantined. We just a little ill when the rioting reached the home in which we were housed. We fled, of course.

"The trouble is…"

Sandry broke off. "I'm hungry," she said. "Is the porridge nearly ready?"

"Yes."

Without another word they set about their breakfast. Lark watched Sandry evenly, but Sandry could not look up from her meal. "I… have not always been… so good," she managed at last. "Papa told me not to go out and play, he said I was still infectious, but I wouldn't listen. Daja would hate me if she knew."

Finally Sandry's eyes met Lark's, but they were not filled with tears. In fact, Sandry looked like her old self again. Her resilience impressed Lark, who had herself been an easily wounded youth. It was true, too, that Daja would be furious, had her temper, slight though it had been, not cooled. The Traders had taken many blows for bringing the smallpox to Hatar, but they had not brought it.

Sandry had.