“Yes, really. Which is another reason why all this—” Venette waved her hand at his laden workbenches. “—is so hazardous to your political health. Handle the College’s problem deftly, my dear, and you’ll go a long way to earning Brice’s genuine approval. Not to mention put Sallis in your debt.”

“I like the sound of that. Best you give me the details.”

When she’d finished explaining the crisis and his task, he shook his head.

“Arkley is a fool. He should’ve told Jordane to take his concerns direct to the proctor, or to Hahren if he thought the proctor of no use.”

Venette rolled her eyes. “Yes, well, you know that, and I know that, but Nevin Jordane has made it his life’s work to use people.”

“Hahren has no inkling of this?”

“Apparently not. You’ll involve him?”

“If it’s warranted.”

“Well, I’m sure you’ll do what’s best,” Venette said. “Just don’t be tempted to put your thumb in Sallis’s eye, just because you can. The welfare of the College must come first.”

“Agreed,” he said, nodding. “Which is why I shall look into the matter as soon as I’ve met with our man of business. It won’t do me any harm to treat the problem with more urgency than our esteemed Lord Varen suggests.”

Venette laughed. “How devious of you, my dear. Sallis won’t know whether to smile or spit.” Crossing to him, she laid a hand on his arm. “I’ll be about my own affairs, now. Don’t rail too much at Rumm after I’m gone. He really had no choice but to let me up here, you know.”

“I know,” he said, and kissed her cheek. “Besides, it would take a man made of sterner stuff than Rumm to resist the formidable Lady Martain.”

“Ha!” she said, stepping back. “Which makes you made of what, I wonder? Solid granite?” Then she stilled, her gaze fallen upon the open book beside him on the bench. “Rubin Cylte?” Her voice was a shocked gasp. She looked at him, her violet eyes dismayed. “Oh, my dear. My dear. I hope you know what you’re doing.”

Not replying, he unwarded the door and watched her walk out of his attic, her head high, her shoulders slumping.

“Believe me, Venette,” he said into the silence. “So do I.”

Though Pother Ranmer severely disapproved, Lord Danfey insisted upon leaving his privy apartments to attend the monthly meeting with the family’s man of business.

“I’m not crypted yet, Morgan!” he snapped, wheezing as he fastened the buttons on his shirt. He was perched on the edge of his bed, his legs not steady enough to hold him upright while his fingers fumbled a task any child would find simple. “And I’ll know the standing of this family’s monies and interests before I am.”