She nods to herself, and reaches carefully for the green shoot. The light greys and browns where it touches her gloved hand. As she wraps it around her fingers and feels the energy transition coming, she partitions her thoughts--drawing on what she's learned from the theorem of the Eighth study--and alongside the blazing crematorium she sees a tomb.

(There is always a Tomb in Harrowhark Nonagesimus's mind.)

Ashes to ashes; dust to dust. Dirt falling on a coffin. The weight of stone. Minerals leaching into ancient bones. The embrace of the earth; the release of life into death and then back into life through the oldest magic of all.

She feels her nose start to bleed, but the grey-brown vine loops around her thumb and fingers and reaches back for Moiraine.