Morgan frowned at Hahren, loathing the man. Where was his outrage on behalf of the College? Where was his disgust over Nevin Jordane’s dynastic selfishness? By comparison, Bellamie Ranowen’s lack of ranking was harmless. That Jordane would foist his abomination of a child upon the unsuspecting young men of Dorana, corrupt good mages to his cause, undermine the College’s revered reputation… did all of that mean nothing to Voln Hahren?

The man’s not fit for his position. When the Jordane dust has settled, I’ll see him removed.

“I think Lord Jordane is clever enough to cut his losses,” he said mildly. No point in revealing to Hahren his true feelings. “While he still can.”

A vein was throbbing in Hahren’s right temple. The patina of sweat was a trickle now, sliding down his colourless cheeks like tears. Indeed, the despicable craven did look close to weeping.

“Councillor Danfey, I fear you cannot conceive of what you’re asking.”

“You mean I cannot conceive of what doing your duty will cost you. Hahren, do you imagine that I care?”

“No, Councillor Danfey,” Hahren muttered, as sweat stained his fine silk tunic. “I see plainly that you don’t.”

“Good,” Morgan said, and rapped his knuckles once to Hahren’s cluttered desk. “Then we understand each other. See this sordid matter settled. I’ll look for your report to the Council when next it formally meets.”

Hahren groped inside his tunic for a kerchief and dragged it over his face. “And what of Lord Arkley?”

Ah. So Hahren knew of that connection, did he? “You can leave Lord Arkley to me. Be assured you’ll not be hindered in the execution of your duties.”

Leaving Hahren to gape after him, Morgan withdrew from the chamber. As he closed its door behind him, thoughts bending toward Maris Garrick, he glanced casually around the antechamber—and felt his heart stop, his blood seize. He forgot how to breathe.

A young mage, fine-boned and slender, untidily dressed in shabby blue linen. Her golden hair was braided like a crown. She sat on the edge of a bench pushed against the small room’s far wall, hands pressed between her knees, gaze fixed to the tiled floor. He’d never seen her before, and yet he was certain he knew her. Lost in her own thoughts, she didn’t look up, or even realise she was no longer alone.

Mouth dry, palms sweating, he feasted his eyes upon her. This girl, this stranger, made the air dance against his tingling skin. Who was she? Why did she strike him like lightning from a clear sky? He didn’t know. All he knew was that she stirred him. Deeply stirred him. In a way no woman had since—since—

Profoundly unsettled, he withdrew before she noticed him. He was expected at The Opal. Maris would be waiting, and it wouldn’t be wise to make her feel neglected.