“Make the tea, Mage Lindin,” said Councillor Danfey, lowering his hand. “And by all means cut me a slice of cake. I’ve been working all morning and neglected to take breakfast.”

Oh. So it was that bad, was it? Well, yes, of course it was. Barl never did anything in half measures.

He made the tea, poured it into his two best cups, cut the pear and bassiberry cake into generous slices, then laid the hasty feast on the table.

“Don’t stint yourself, sir,” he said, sliding into the other chair. “A cake’s easily baked.”

“Perhaps,” said Councillor Danfey, after his first mouthful. “But rarely so well.”

Remmie tried to smile, but his face had forgotten how. “Thank you.”

As the councillor continued to eat and drink, he sipped his sugared tea. Didn’t dare eat cake, for fear it would choke him. There was a lump in his throat he couldn’t swallow away. Any minute now, surely, Councillor Danfey would say what had happened… wouldn’t he?

The answer, it seemed, was no. Another cup of tea. Another slice of cake. No more casual conversation, just a thoughtful stare through the kitchen window, his brow creased into a faint frown. Remmie bit his tongue. They might be in his home but he felt supplanted as its master. Morgan Danfey wore his mantle of authority as comfortably as his fine silk brocade. The rings on his right hand were fashioned from gold and precious jewels. One was even a firestone, worth more than every personal possession in Batava.

So was it some kind of test, making him sit here in silence? And if he didn’t pass it, did that mean Barl would suffer? Terrified that it might, he kept on biting his tongue. He’d asked twice now for an explanation. He didn’t dare ask again.

At last the councillor sighed, and pushed his emptied cup to one side. “Mage Lindin, tell me about your sister. The hard truth, mind. No sweetening.”

Remmie blinked. And was this another test? He fought the urge to wipe his damp palms down his shirt front. “I don’t—I’m not sure—sir, what do you want to know?”

“Whatever you wish to tell me.”

Oh, Barl. “She’s a brilliant mage,” he said, after a moment. “Sometimes I think too brilliant for her own good. She has a good heart but she won’t suffer jiggets. That’s what gets her into strife. Maybe she’s not—” He chewed his lip. It felt treacherous, what he intended to say. But Councillor Danfey had said he wanted the hard truth. He’d never believe a gushing of honey, no vinegar. “My sister isn’t overburdened with humility, sir. She makes no apologies for her gifts and doesn’t take kindly to those who slight her.”

Councillor Danfey was nodding. “You’d call her ambitious?”