She baits her trap with care, this Garrick daughter. Were I a callow youth I might well tumble into it without a second thought.

But he wasn’t callow. He never had been. And since Venette’s dinner party he’d had his suspicions confirmed. Maris Garrick might be young, but she wasn’t entirely an innocent. His shifting gaze touched on the woman sitting alone at the table beside them. Maris’s companion, her silent shadow. Though Lord and Lady Garrick were anxious to see their daughter well wed, they weren’t entirely reckless.

Or perhaps they know she cares less for propriety than a proper young mage should.

“Morgan?”

Maris was staring at him, a light frown creasing her fair brow. She had the palest, most translucent skin. It was beautiful. She was beautiful.

But not as beautiful as the girl waiting for Hahren.

Another wrenching effort, and the girl’s face was banished. He dredged up an apologetic smile.

“Forgive me. There is certain Council business weighing on my mind. You’ll understand if I cannot say any more than that.”

“Of course,” Maris replied, and took more soup. “I understand perfectly.”

But did she? Was that a shadow of displeasure darkening her lustrous eyes? He thought it was. So what, then, was Maris Garrick thinking? That she should be privy to his discreet Council business? That marriage to Morgan Danfey would see the Garrick family gain some roundabout, backhanded Council influence? Even power?

If so, my dear, you are sorely mistaken.

Busy this evening, as usual, The Opal’s warm air glowed with the rustic novelty of Brantish beeswax candles. Their sweet scent mingled with the aromas of fine food. In the gallery above the dining area musicians serenaded the guests with soft, elegant music. A haven of luxurious gentility, The Opal, where supremely gifted food mages slaved to provide sumptuous repasts for wealthy and discriminating palates.

Appetite quite fled, Morgan stared at his opening course of tender rabbit loin stuffed with prune and wrapped in salt bacon. No matter his efforts, the girl in Hahren’s antechamber would not be dismissed.

Though she hid it well, she was distressed. What brings her to Elvado? She was dressed in linen. That makes her either unranked, or so lowly placed she might as well be. But there’s power in her, as belongs in the best First Family blood. That’s why my skin danced. Power calling to power.

Justice be damned, who was she?

“Dear sir, I have something to ask you,” said Maris, setting aside her spoon. Intruding again. “If I may?”

In emptying her bowl she’d splashed soup on the immaculate white tablecloth. Was the woman a boor? How could he invite her to dine at the Danfey mansion if she was incapable of keeping her soup safe in its spoon?

“Of course,” he said, smothering irritation with pleasantry. “There is no need to ask my permission.”