It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t. What I do in this place doesn’t change who I am.

Who she’d be again one day. They’d not keep her bound forever.

Halfway down the staircase, heading back to the mansion’s vast kitchen, she heard swift footfalls behind her. Oddly, they sounded angry. Pausing, she turned and looked up the staircase, past the third floor landing.

It was Morgan Danfey.

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Sixteen

Staring at her captor as he halted a few steps above her, Barl saw there was a smudge of yellow on the sleeve of his bronze silk brocade tunic. It looked like powdered gedlef root. As well, an odour of tinctured bidaline clung to his fine clothes. Which must mean he did have his own workroom somewhere upstairs.

And he’s using gedlef? He must be mad. Everyone knows it’s notoriously unstable.

Whatever the councillor was doing with it, and the tinctured bidaline, she thought the work did not go well. Behind his expression of polite disinterest he was vexed. No, more than that. Distressed.

Yes, well, so am I.

So distressed—by her binding, her imprisonment, the Council’s arrogant injustice—she wanted to hurl the laden tray she carried over the staircase banister and watch teapot and plates smash to shards on the foyer’s splendid marble floor.

But if she did that, well…

“Councillor Danfey,” she murmured, and bobbed her head in a servantly show of respect.

He nodded. “Mage Lindin. Here scarcely an hour, and I see Rumm has already put you to work.”

“Yes, sir. Taking morning tea to Lord Danfey.”

They stood between the third and second floor landings. Councillor Danfey glanced back up the stairs. “I trust you found his lordship well?”

Actually, I found him a cantankerous old goat.

“Yes, sir.”

A hint of warmth crept into his eyes. “He was peevish? Don’t take it to heart. Lord Danfey is weary of being kept close to bed.”

“Yes, sir.”

The councillor stepped one stair tread closer. “You must have spent an uncomfortable night, prisoned beneath the Hall.”

“I survived.”

“The binding. I hope it doesn’t chafe you too badly.”

She shrugged. “I hardly notice it.”

“You will, Mage Lindin, if you test its limits. Don’t.”

“Councillor…” It might be foolish, asking him questions, but she had to try. “How long will the Council keep me bound?”

He stepped closer again, his eyes surprisingly gentle. “I don’t know. I suspect much will depend on my reports of you.”

Of course it would. “And I suppose your reports will depend on what Master Rumm says of me?”

“Exactly,” he said, very close to a smile. “My father might be lord here, but it often feels as though it’s Rumm who rules the roost.”

Interesting, that he found the notion amusing. She couldn’t imagine Lord Varen amused by the bossiness of a servant.