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Rosethorn was a winner. She refused to settle or to fail, and that was how she ended up in a deadlock race with Crane. Neither was ever entirely sure what they were racing for, but they knew they did not want to let the other win. If Crane was able to fertilize a field, Rosethorn would work till she could do a field and a half. At which point, Crane would do two. Their teacher would laugh to himself, having never worked with two such competitive students before, but as they pushed each other to tighter control and increased strength and stamina, he let them be.
As they grew, their competitive streak settled more into a game than a competition, and the natural evolution of their studies carried their companionship out of the classroom. When Crane came home after he discovered a gardener with green magic whom he now had to teach, the two stared at each other in shock, realizing they were now adults in the eyes of their profession.
The house they made together was bare and unremarkable, but the greenery that surrounded it was a sight to behold. Rosethorn’s days settled into a pattern, and she enjoyed the work she did. Mornings she tended the garden at home, afternoons she worked in the hospital and granary storerooms, and evenings she would read or replenish her own stores. Midday rest period was her own time for what she needed, and recently she had found herself in the library during that time, reading and learning. Crane had recently taken to the idea that plants could be made to grow out of season, and Rosethorn’s every instinct rebelled against this concept. So to the library she went, to find facts to support her feelings.
Rosethorn thought herself alone in the library the day she dragged a chair over to a shelf of books and climbed onto it, stretching her arms to barely graze the spine of the book that so grabbed her attention. She sighed her displeasure and jumped off the chair, landing with a thump on the wood floor. A light laugh came from behind her, and Rosethorn spun around to see who had surprised her.
A woman only slightly younger than Rosethorn was smiling from the shadow of the bookshelves. She stepped forward cautiously and lightly hopped onto the chair. Taller than Rosethorn, she could easily see the shelf that Rosethorn had been so struggling to reach.
“Which one do you need?”
Rosethorn bit her tongue to contain her snide comments, hoping this woman would not take offense. “The blue one – just there – with the faded title. The Natural Order.”
The woman glanced over the shelf and removed the requested title without blinking. Stepping off the chair, she offered the book. “What are you reading it for?”
Rosethorn only found curiosity as she looked up into the woman’s eyes, not apprehension or the hostility as she had found from the librarian who had told her the section, or from Crane who was growing ever more distant. She took the book, warily.
“Do you ever feel like others are trying to force things to be what they are not? Or to do something they have no interest, or need, to do?”
There was that laugh again. “Of course,” the woman said. “But I’m sure you have something more specific in mind.” She put her satchel on the chair and pushed it back towards the table. Sitting down, she looked at Rosethorn’s notes. “What are you looking at?”
Slightly surprised at both the woman’s forwardness and her easy answer, Rosethorn carefully sat down next to her. “Crane thinks he can get plants to grow out of season.”
“Can he?”
Rosethorn snorted. “Does it matter if he can do it, if he is forcing them into something they shouldn’t – or wouldn’t – normally be doing?”
A blink, and an appraising stare. Rosethorn returned the stare, and was surprised at the distant thought going on behind the woman’s gaze. “I suppose not,” she said at last, and held out her hand. “My name is Lark. How can I help?”
Rosethorn cautiously extended her hand. “Rosethorn,” she replied. “Can you reach the top shelf over there?”
Lark laughed and stood to reach the book.
**
Lark and Rosethorn kept meeting in the library, even as Rosethorn exhausted academic studies on seasonal plants. Lark began convincing her to write her own, and finally Rosethorn relented. Crane shouted so loudly the night he found a draft of her thesis that (although Rosethorn would admit this to no one but Lark) she was actually frightened.
Soon Rosethorn began bringing her work to Lark’s rooms, toting a cart of plants and books and medicine. A bright Sunday as she was packing up again to return the plants to the workroom she shared with Crane, Lark looked over at her.
“You know, you can really just leave them here. I don’t mind.”
Rosethorn paused her packing. “That would be nice,” she said slowly. “But won’t they be in your way?”
Lark shrugged. “You bring the whole cart over every day. It seems silly, don’t you think? Wouldn’t you like to have a real workroom?”
“I do have a real workroom, thank you very much,” retorted Rosethorn. Lark snorted, and Rosethorn relented. She found herself relenting to Lark more often than she didn’t, and it was an unusual feeling, and she liked it. “I have one. I share it with Crane.”
“Which means you don’t have one, Rosie.” Lark raised an eyebrow. “Just leave it here.”
Rosethorn sighed and put the plant down. She sat down at the table and looked at Lark plaintively. “I like it here.” She wrapped her hands around a mug as Lark poured hot tea into it. “But really, you are already pressed for space. You barely can fit your loom.”
Lark poured herself another mug and sat down. She looked around the crowded room and frowned. “Dedicate Marietta was talking about moving out of Discipline,” she said appraisingly. “It’s a lovely space over there – with that side room all set up for weaving, all open and lit.”
“Lark, that is perfect for you!” Rosethorn’s eyes lit up. “I see you with Komin, I know he responds to your teaching much more than Crane’s. You should see the leap he made in his meditation the last time you came over and worked with him.”
“Really?” Lark grinned. “I know I love working with them, and teaching, but – what if I can’t do it full time? If they don’t respect me?” Her eyes dropped, and Rosethorn realized this was a real worry for her. “Rosie, how could I help them if I can’t understand them?”
Rosethorn bit back a smile and reached for her friend’s hand. “You’re wonderful. You will. And they’ll have their primary teacher for the things that you can’t understand. You got through to Komin in just a day, and Crane had been trying for nearly a month.”
Lark shook her head. “He was easy to talk to; you just had to figure out where his head was.”
“And you did,” Rosethorn squeezed Lark’s hand. “You’re good at that. You’re good at unraveling people’s defenses.”
“And what if they don’t respect me?” Lark put her free hand on top of Rosethorn’s, and Rosethorn grinned.
“Then you can send them to me.” She got an evil glint in her eyes. “And I’ll skin them alive.”
Lark laughed and tightened her grip on Rosethorn’s hands. “Alright then.”
~*~
“Well, what do you think?” Lark spun in a circle, arms splayed out. She was standing in the center hall of Discipline, having just finished cleaning. The wood shone, and the carpet runners were crisp and clean. Rosethorn glanced through the doors to the kitchen, where her favorite tea service was sitting prepped on the counter. The other direction led to Lark’s weaving room, the light cotton curtains blowing in the warm summer air. Rosethorn let her face display how impressed she was, and Lark swelled with pride.
“It’s beautiful, Lark.” Rosethorn could feel herself relaxing just stepping in the house. Lark had instilled in the house the same sense of serenity that Rosethorn felt whenever she was in Lark’s presence. Lark beamed, and took Rosethorn by the wrist, drawing her to the western window.
“Look there – the garden plot.”
Rosethorn’s magic leaped out from her to encompass the garden. The soil was rich, the shade beautiful, the flowers lining the far edge happy and content. Lark had been keeping a close watch on tending it, and her care showed. “Lark… It’s wonderful.” Rosethorn turned to look up at Lark. “Thank you.”
Slowly, Lark ran her hand through Rosethorn’s close cropped hair. “Like you,” she whispered. “For you. It has been. Rosethorn…” She trailed off. When she spoke again, her voice was low and raw with need. “Stay here.”
Rosethorn looked up into Lark’s eyes and saw laid bare something she had only seen half-imagined flashes of before. Words of protest dropped out of her mouth as her logical rationale for staying in the cold house she shared with Crane – her fellow green mage, sharing as teachers sharing a student oft did – disappeared in a flood of reasons that she should run, run far and fast from him and run into Lark’s waiting arms, where the green in the garden already called to her as herself, and where the tension in her shoulders dripped away before she even crossed the threshold.
The warmth spreading through Rosethorn had nothing to do with the sunlight streaming through the window and everything to do with the woman who was drawing her closer. Lark cupped her hand under Rosethorn’s chin and tilted her head up. Slowly lips pressed together, and the sunlight in and around Rosethorn blazed at full strength. Rosethorn clasped her hands around Lark, drawing her closer. Their foreheads rested against each other as fingers traced necks, arms, cheeks. Rosethorn took a deep breath and fell into her magic, drawing Lark with her. Lark responded, and green fire twined with blazes of white ribbons, encircling the two women in links and loops, connecting them. Rosethorn poured her conviction into her magic, her trust in Lark and her love for her. The air around them shimmered and glowed, and Lark pulled back with a look of wonder on her face. She caressed Rosethorn’s cheek, and, as Rosethorn rose on her toes to kiss Lark full on the lips once more, she softly whispered, “Yes.”