The warm room whirled around her. I was right, she thought, anguished, and would have sworn she could smell azafris. “I see.”

“Every time I turn around, Rumm’s telling me he’s locked himself away under the roof,” Greve added, and jerked a thumb toward the ceiling. “I tell him he’ll get to greatness walking, that he don’t need to run, but what do I know, eh? I’ve only got three score years of maging experience. Won’t listen to me. My own son. Don’t suppose you can talk sense to him, can you, girl?”

Girl. So impolite. So typically Greve. “I can try,” she said, stepping closer. It was a battle to keep the horrified pity from her face. “This mysterious incant he’s working on. Have you any idea what it’s for?”

His clouded eyes, nastily crusted and sunken, gleamed at her. “If I’ve an inkling, I’ll not share it. Best he tells you himself, if he wants to. He’ll not thank me for interfering. How’s that husband of yours?”

Fear had its claws sunk deep in her chest. And there were tears for the sick old man before her, burning and crowding and blurring her vision. A mercy. She didn’t begin to know how Morgan could bear looking at this travesty day after day.

“Orwin?” She had to clear her throat. “Orwin is well. He sends you his kindest wishes, as does Brice Varen. I’m instructed particularly to convey them.”

Greve snorted. “That old goat. Runs his precious Council of Mages with an iron fist, does he? Morgan won’t tell me much of that, either. Far too nice to gossip, my son.”

“Brice is a stickler for the protocols, it’s true,” she said, cautious. “But he’s fair-minded with it, Greve. I know you and he have had your differences, but he is a good man.”

Greve opened his mouth to answer, but began coughing instead. As he pressed a kerchief to his mouth, muffling the tearing sounds of distress, she looked around for some water. Greve shook his hand toward the furthest of the sitting room’s three windows. A filled pitcher and a glass sat there, on the sill. Hurrying, she fetched him a drink and helped him swallow.

“You should have that beside you, Greve,” she scolded, when he’d sipped his fill. “What use is it to you all the way over there?”

He rolled his oozing, scabbed head against the back of the chair. “Blame my pother for that,” he croaked. “Says I need a reason to get up and use my legs.”

“Pothers,” she said, scornful. “They might mean well, but I’ve no time for them, myself.”

Chuckling, he patted her hand. “It’s a shame our stars weren’t better aligned, Venette. I doubt I’d have minded being married to you.”