"Your housemate's been too long among the weavers," says Acacia knowingly, between mouthfuls of spiced bass and flatbread. "Last I heard, she'd gone to give His Lordship a present, of all things, some sort of wall hanging; mind, he's likely murdered her by now, seeing as they haven't been out for fifteen minutes."
You walk fast - running is unseemly, and besides, Crane is no more lethal than a flowerpot - towards the greenhouse, ready to do battle. Lark's your friend against all likelihood, she's one of two people who puts up with your fits of temper and your strange taste in tea, and you do not want to see her blistered by your other best friend's tongue.
The words die on your lips when you see Crane laughing and chatting with Lark as if they've known each other for years; over supper, when you ask her what on the gods' green earth she did, she smiles mysteriously and talks about preventing trouble later on.