He found her right where he knew he would, at Long Falls. Water from the ice sheets above melted and cascaded down the rocky ledge, churning the earth into a deep and rich mud. One of the duties of gray dasha was to gather the mud that their brood turned into pottery and brick and all manner of other things.

The water was freezing cold, but the female dasha waded through it as if it was a pleasant brook. Not for the first time, Piscalo wondered if women really did have ice in their veins like his own clutch leader Barthol said.

“The green brothers’ errand boy,” a tall woman greeted him. She had long hair the color of honey, bound back and up in a tight braid, synched by a clasp made from another of Syldrae’s gray scales. “Shouldn’t you be doing something?” Other than this, her tone implied.

Piscalo dipped his head, trying not to look at his dark-haired friend who worked nearby, up to her knees in water and her elbows in mud. “Graydaughter Florane. I’m sorry to bother you, but Grayson Trag asked me to bring Misola.”

Florane blinked at the obvious fib. “What?”

Piscalo took a breath and tried again. “Grayson Trag, I bumped into him on bone detail. He—”

Her hand fluttered, waving him to silence. “Why?”

Piscalo was lost for a moment. “Why was he on bone detail?

Her hands found her hips. “Why did he ask you?” Each word was punctuated by a little ripple in the water around her legs as a submerged foot obviously tapped.

Piscalo simply shrugged. When it came to lying, he had found that the less said, the better.

Florane clucked her tongue, and then she quickly turned to scold some of the younger women who had stopped in their labor to watch the exchange. When that was done, the woman's gaze swung to Misola.

“Missy!” she called to the girl, motioning for her to stop working and come over. Misola nodded at the summons but continued to carefully place globs of dark mud into a wax-lined basket, which hung from a hook pole sunk deep into the stream. Only when the basket had reached its fullest did Misola wash the mud from her hands and wade forward.

“Yes, clutch leader?” she asked, head down, as if she hadn’t heard a single word that had been spoken not ten scales away.

Florane stabbed a thumb towards Piscalo. “This boy says that Trag has called for you. You are to follow him quickly and carefully and then return here as soon as whatever business is needed is done. Is that clear?”

Misola dipped a slight curtsy, water rising to her thighs, and Florane spun back to her troop, clapping her hands. “We’ve just lost a pair of hands, ladies.”

Some of the women turned to reply, but the more experienced among them just called out as they worked. “Yes, clutch leader!”

“We still have an order for sixty baskets overflowing by moonrise. Will we fill it?”

“Yes, clutch leader!”

During this exchange, Piscalo somehow found himself examining Florane’s hands. She had long fingers and nails painted a deep gray, the same color as the dyed portions of her scar that ran the length of her arm. How long at it been since she had scooped the mud banks he wondered? How long since she had done more than just order people around?

As if she could sense him watching her, Florane glanced over her shoulder.

“Go on,” she said, “before I find some real work for you to do.”

That was enough to get Piscalo’s feet moving. He quickly bobbed his head to Florane and snatched up Misola’s arm. The clutch leader raised an eyebrow at the contact but if she chose to say something it came after they had already sprinted away.

Misola followed him until they were out of sight and then yanked her arm back. He had grabbed her by her left so as not to hurt her healing right, which was still getting tattooed each month. She, of course, had been burned last year.

“Trag?” she said. “The best you could come up with was Trag?”

“It worked,” he said, but Misola rolled her eyes.

“Yeah, it worked, and so would saying her clutch house was on fire or that a hatchling had gotten into the mud huts. It doesn’t mean that they aren’t stupid and won’t get you a solid rump thump.”

Piscalo stuck out his tongue. “Thorry mine’th not thilver like yourth.”

She took a step back to avoid his spittle. “What is that?”

He looked down, discovering that one of the leftover strips of meat attached to his forearm was poking out his right sleeve.

“Rabbit?” he said, lifting his arm to dance the flesh in front of her. “Want some?”

Misola’s nose wrinkled immediately. “No.”

“Why not?” he said, hanging the meat above his open mouth. “It’s good!”

Her foot started tapping in a fair imitation of Florane. “Stop being disgusting and tell me what you want.”

Piscalo took a big breath, covering the rabbit with his sleeve. “I need advice.”

“Advice?” she said, cocking her head. “About what?”

“What I should wear.”

“Where are you going?”

Piscalo rocked from foot to foot. “Can’t say. Don’t want to jinx it.”

Misola sighed. “Piscalo, I’m going back to work.” She turned to walk away, but he grabbed her arm, baring his teeth.

“Are they clean?”

Misola looked at him like he had just grown a third eye. “Are what clean?”

“My teeth.”

She glanced at his mouth and back up. “I guess, why—”

Piscalo dropped his head and shook it. “And my hair?”

Misola shoved him away. “Piscalo, what is going on? I don’t have time for this.”

He squinted his eyes as he looked at the sun. “Why? What time is it?”

“Near half past feeding. What is wrong with you?”

Piscalo leaned in, giving her a quick peck on the cheek. “Thanks. Bye.”

He dashed off, leaving her sputtering and wiping her face. This was terrible. Everything had taken too long and now there was no way that he could go home to change and get back before Gresset did. Dragon's flame was supposed to be the ultimate purification, so if he was burned today he hoped it would count as cleansing his disheveled appearance.

Piscalo had almost finished running back down Sharp Rise when he noticed that Misola was sprinting along beside him. He cracked a grin.

“Thought you didn’t have time.”

She shot him a withering look. “You must have done something terrible to have you running around like a headless lava lizard.” She looked forward, the edge of her mouth quirking. “I just want to see you get whatever’s coming.”

Piscalo laughed.

They rushed through the streets at a blur, whisking by white workers, regular dasha, and brood sons and daughters. Misola was taller than him so her legs were longer, but Piscalo was used to chasing after two relentless dragon brothers and managed to keep pace. Competing made the trip much faster, and they soon reached the base of the green spire, both slowing to walks.

“Are you going to tell me?” Misola asked. Her face was red and she was holding her side, but she was also finally smiling.

Piscalo let out a long breath before returning the grin. “What, and ruin the surprise?”