What could she say to that? “Ah, Greve, you flatter me. And if it weren’t for my dear Orwin…”

“Venette.” Sobering, Greve wrapped his fingers around hers. His skin felt like sunburned paper. “This girl Morgan’s looking at. Maris Garrick. Family ranking aside, she’s good enough for him, is she?”

“I’d not have pushed them together if I didn’t think so.”

“She’ll not hurt him?”

“If you’re asking whether her interest is genuine, then yes, Greve. I believe it is.” She hesitated, then added, “But can you say the same of his? I’d not have Maris bruised.”

“As to that, I couldn’t give you a firm answer,” Greve said, his gaze shifting. “He’s not spoken of her to me. Thinks I’m too old and sickly to know that in the past three weeks he’s twice escorted her to a dance and taken her on a horseback jaunt to Knucklebone Hill.”

How aggravating. And how typically close-mouthed of Morgan. “I think it’s a good match, Greve. And we both agree it’s time Morgan moved on from the past… don’t we?”

Greve pressed the kerchief back to his lips. His fingers were trembling, and a raw wheeze rattled in his chest. “I was a fool to indulge him,” he muttered. “Should’ve pushed him to the purpose years before this. But that other girl, dying—” He looked up, his eyes frightened. “I thought I’d lose him over it, y’know. I thought he’d break his heart and follow after her.”

“I know,” she said, gently. “But you needn’t worry now.”

“Needn’t I?” Again, Greve looked to the ceiling. “You talk to him, Venette. Make him leave this incanting nonsense alone. He’s got to be married, to the Garrick girl or some other chit. Can’t say I much care who he weds, provided his pick is suitable. He’s patented once and on the Council. He’s got no business—” He caught himself, lips pinching shut. “He won’t listen to me. You talk to him, Venette.”

Azafris, she thought, wincing, and patted Greve’s unsteady hand. “I will. Please, you mustn’t fret. It’s not good for you.”

He wasn’t listening. “Morgan’s all right, on the Council? Holding his own, is he?”

“Very much so,” she said. “In fact, I’ve come to give him a task Brice wants him to undertake. Very delicate, very sensitive, and he’d not have anyone but Morgan looking into it.”

Which wasn’t a lie. She wasn’t lying to a man more than three-quarters dead.

Greve’s grey face lit up. “Chosen specific by Brice Varen, is he? Well, well. There’s a thing.”