Her calm flaunting of her knowledge and skills left me burning to distinguish myself in her eyes. "I know the thresher's root," I told her. "Some use it to make an ointment for sore shoulders and backs. That's where the name comes from. But if you distill a tincture from it and mix it well in wine, it's never tasted, and it will make a grown man sleep a day and a night and a day again, or make a child die in his sleep."

Her eyes widened as I spoke, and at my last words a look of horror came over her face. I fell silent and felt the sharp awkwardness again. "How do you know such things?" she demanded breathlessly.

"I… I heard an old traveling midwife talking to our midwife up to the keep," I improvised. "It was… a sad story she told, of an injured man given some to help him rest, but his baby got into it as well. A very, very sad story." Her face was softening and I felt her warming toward me again. "I only tell it to be sure you are careful of the root. Don't leave it about where any child can get at it."

"Thank you. I shan't. Are you interested in herbs and roots? I didn't know a scribe cared about such things."

I suddenly realized that she thought I was the scribe's help boy. I didn't see any reason to tell her otherwise. "Oh, Fedwren uses many things, for his dyes and inks. Some copies he makes quite plain, but others are fancy, all done with birds and cats and turtles and fish. He showed me an herbal with the greens and flowers of each herb done as the border for the page."

"That I should dearly love to see," she said in a heartfelt way, and I instantly began thinking of ways to purloin it for a few days.

"I might be able to get you a copy to read… not to keep, but to study for a few days," I offered hesitantly.

She laughed, but there was a slight edge in it. "As if I could read! Oh, but I imagine you've picked up some letters, running about for the scribe's errands."

"A few," I told her, and was surprised at the envy in her eyes when I showed her my list and confessed I could read all seven words on it.

A sudden shyness came over her. She walked more slowly, and I realized we were getting close to the chandlery. I wondered if her father still beat her, but dared not ask about it. Her face, at least, showed no sign of it. We reached the chandlery door and paused there. She made some sudden decision, for she put her hand on my sleeve, took a breath, and then asked, "Do you think you could read something for me? Or even any part of it?"

"I'll try," I offered.

"When I… now that I wear skirts, my father has given me my mother's things. She had been dress help to a lady up at the keep when she was a girl, and had letters taught her. I have some tablets she wrote. I'd like to know what they say."

"I'll try," I repeated.

"My father's in the shop." She said no more than that, but something in the way her consciousness rang against mine was sufficient.

"I'm to get Scribe Fedwren two beeswax tapers," I reminded her. "I dare not go back to the keep without them."

"Be not too familiar with me," she cautioned me, and then opened the door.

I followed her, but slowly, as if coincidence brought us to the door together. I need not have been so circumspect. Her father slept quite soundly in a chair beside the hearth. I was shocked at the change in him. His skinniness had become skeletal, the flesh on his face reminding me of an undercooked pastry over a lumpy fruit pie. Chade had taught me well. I looked to the man's fingernails and lips, and even from across the room, I knew he could not live much longer. Perhaps he no longer beat Molly because he no longer had the strength. Molly motioned me to be quiet. She vanished behind the hangings that divided their home from their shop, leaving me to explore the store.

It was a pleasant place, not large, but the ceiling was higher than in most of the shops and dwellings in Buckkeep Town. I suspected it was Molly's diligence that kept it swept and tidy. The pleasant smells and soft light of her industry filled the room. Her wares hung in pairs by their joined wicks from long dowels on a rack. Fat sensible candles for ships' use filled another shelf. She even had three glazed pottery lamps on display, for those able to afford such things. In addition to candles, I found she had pots of honey, a natural by-product of the beehives she tended behind the shop that furnished the wax for her finest products.

Then Molly reappeared and motioned to me to come join her. She brought a branch of tapers and a set of tablets to a table and set them out on it. Then she stood back and pressed her lips together as if wondering if what she did were wise.

The tablets were done in the old style. Simple slabs of wood had been cut with the grain of the tree and sanded smooth. The letters had been brushed on carefully, and then sealed to the wood with a yellowing rosin layer. There were five, excellently lettered. Four were carefully precise accounts of herbal recipes for healing candles. As I read each one softly aloud to Molly, I could see her struggling to commit them to memory. At the fifth tablet, I hesitated. "This isn't a recipe," I told her.

"Well, what is it?" she demanded in a whisper.

I shrugged and began to read it to her. "'On this day was born my Molly Nosegay, sweet as any bunch of posies. For her birth labors, I burned two tapers of bayberry and two cup candles scented with two handfuls of the small violets that grow near Dowell's Mill and one handful of redroot, chopped very fine. May she do likewise when her time comes to bear a child, and her labor will be as easy as mine, and the fruit of it as perfect. So I believe.'"

That was all, and when I had read it, the silence grew and blossomed. Molly took that last tablet from my hands and held it in her two hands and stared at it, as if reading things in the letters that I had not seen. I shifted my feet, and the scuffing recalled to her that I was there. Silently she gathered up all her tablets and disappeared with them once more.

When she came back, she walked swiftly to the shelf and took down two tall beeswax tapers, and then to another shelf whence she took two fat pink candles.

"I only need—"

"Shush. There's no charge for any of these. The sweetberry-blossom ones will give you calm dreams. I very much enjoy them, and I think you will, too." Her voice was friendly, but as she put them into my basket I knew she was waiting for me to leave. Still, she walked to the door with me, and opened it softly lest it wake her father. "Goodbye, Newboy," she said, and then gave me one real smile. "Nosegay. I never knew she called me that. Nosebleed, they called me on the streets. I suppose the older ones who knew what name she had given me thought it was funny. And after a while they probably forgot it had ever been anything else. Well. I don't care. I have it now. A name from my mother."

"It suits you," I said in a sudden burst of gallantry, and then, as she stared and the heat rose in my cheeks, I hurried away from the door. I was surprised to find that it was late afternoon, nearly evening. I raced through the rest of my errands, begging the last item on my list, a weasel's skin, through the shutters of the merchant's window. Grudgingly he opened his door to me, complaining that he liked to eat his supper hot, but I thanked him so profusely he must have believed me a little daft.

I was hurrying up the steepest part of the road back to the keep when I heard the unexpected sounds of horses behind me. They were coming up from the dock section of town, and being ridden hard. It was ridiculous. No one kept horses in town, for the roads were too steep and rocky to make them of much use. Also, the town was crowded into such a small area as to make riding a horse a vanity rather than a convenience. So these must be horses from the keep's stables. I stepped to one side of the road and waited, curious to see who would risk Burrich's wrath by riding horses at such speed on slick and uneven cobbles in poor light.