Smiling, Bellamie Ranowen waited for the amusement to die down, then nodded at Student Jordane as she stepped up to the lectern. The girl knew better than to openly defy her tutor, but there was a curl to her lips that suggested an imperfectly veiled contempt.

Morgan frowned. Like father, like daughter. The girl should be disciplined for that disrespect alone. Once appointed a College tutor, Ranowen’s lack of ranking had been rendered moot.

Bellamie Ranowen pretended not to notice her student’s mutinous expression. Instead, with effortless expertise, she translocated a slender crystal bud-vase from elsewhere to balance on her outstretched palm.

“Student Jordane. Be so good as to take possession of this vase.”

With poor grace, Nevin Jordane’s daughter did as she was told. The set of her elegant jaw said she wanted to hurl the vase to the very back of the hall.

“Excellent,” said Bellamie Ranowen, approving. “Now, transform it into a crystal flower. Nothing too elaborate. A single-stem budded nartani, perhaps.”

“Yes, Tutor Ranowen,” the girl murmured, pretending dutiful compliance… but if her fingers tightened much more she’d be holding a handful of broken glass.

Still watching closely, Morgan stepped as near to the back row of student seats as he dared. None of Bellamie Ranowen’s pupils noticed him. Their attentions were fixed upon the drama playing out before them on the dais.

“Come along, Student Jordane,” said Bellamie Ranowen. “We’re waiting.”

Was it a trick of the hall’s atmosphere, or did she now sound a trifle mocking? Morgan thought she did. And with what he could sense… or not sense… in Nevin Jordane’s rude daughter, he suspected the truth behind the accusations made against Bellamie Ranowen was far less savoury than Lord Varen was going to like. He stifled a smile.

Oh dear. Sallis is going to look such a fool.

Student Jordane flicked a nervous, resentful glance at her watching classmates, then cleared her throat. With the crystal vase held in her left hand, she used her right to trace the transmutation sigil in the air. It burned indigo blue, vibrant with promise.

“Quickly now, the incant,” said Bellamie Ranowen. “Don’t let the sigil’s energies go to waste.”

Her tongue stumbling, Nevin Jordane’s daughter recited the transmutation incant’s nine lilting syllables. Three words into her casting, Morgan felt his skin begin to crawl.

So his suspicion was correct, and Bellamie Ranowen knew it too. Nevin’s daughter had a tin ear. She was mangling the incant. Even as she reached its painful end, the crystal vase she was holding collapsed into glassy dust.

Bellamie Ranowen sighed, and with another flourish produced a second vase. “Try again, Student Jordane.”

Cheeks burned dull red, pretending not to hear the whisperings of her peers, the girl took the second vase and ignited a second sigil.