Still searching Cylte’s book, he felt a warning thrum through the warded attic door a breath before Rumm’s diffident voice sounded on its other side.

“Sir? Councillor Danfey?”

His father’s health was too precarious for him to ignore the master servant. Feeling vicious, Morgan disengaged the ward and flung the door open.

“This had better be important, Rumm, or I’ll—”

The rest of his intended threat he swallowed, unspoken. Rumm wasn’t alone. Behind him stood Venette, violet eyes glittering, her finely drawn jaw clenched tight.

Trouble.

Rumm bowed. “Forgive me, sir, but Lady Martain claims to be here on Council business.”

Claims. That was a nice touch. It placed the blame for this unwelcome interruption square on Venette’s silk-clad shoulders.

“Fine, Rumm. You can go.”

“Sir,” Rumm murmured, and left Venette to her fate.

Her chin was up, combative. “You’d best ask me in, Morgan. This isn’t a conversation you’ll want to have in the corridor.”

“Fine,” he said again, stepping back. “But don’t think to make yourself comfortable. I’m busy.”

She swept past him. “Never fear. We’re in no danger of comfort.”

Impossible woman, treating the Danfey mansion as though it were her town house. Talking to him like he was no better than Rumm. He slammed the attic door and reignited his privacy ward.

“Council business?”

The thudding of her heels on the floorboards sounded loud and full of temper. Her turquoise Ranoushi silk tunic swirled around her as she paced. “That’s right.”

He hitched his hip onto the end of his workbench. “You mean Sallis wasn’t wasting everyone’s time? Behold me amazed.”

“Sallis?” She turned on him. “Sallis, you arrogant fool, knows someone has been diddling the rules of purchase for azafris. And do not sit there smirking at me, Morgan, when I can smell the stinking stuff in the air!”

He felt the words like a hard punch, under his ribs. “How would Sallis know about recent sales of azafris?”

“Oh, how does Sallis know anything? He’s a skinny little spider with a far-flung web! He knows people who know people who know peddlers who know thieves. No scrap of gossip is too small for Sallis Arkley to notice. For pity’s sake, Morgan, what do you need with so much of the stuff? What do you need with even a pinch of it?”

Did she truly expect him to tell her? A mage’s privy workings were precisely that. Privy. To ask, no—demand—that he divulge the details of his work to her was the grossest of insults. Not even his father had crossed that line.

“Don’t think you’ll intimidate me with that haughty Danfey stare,” Venette said, scornful. “I’ve been stared down by stronger mages than you.”

He slapped a hand to his heart. “Lady Martain, you wound me!”