He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. “No, Venette. You wouldn’t.”

“Then trust me,” she urged him softly.

Unbidden, his fingers drifted to the place where his locket had rested. Like a phantom, he could still feel it there, warm against his skin.

“I should go,” he said, releasing her. “I have work at home, awaiting my attention.”

“Magework?” Venette frowned. “Morgan—”

He tapped a finger to her lips, lightly pressing. “I will always have magework, Venette. I am a mage, first and foremost.”

Prettily pouting, she smoothed the front of his tunic. “And we’re friends again?”

“Yes. We are friends.”

“Excellent,” she said, laughing. And do I have your leave to speak to Maris tonight? About the house party?”

More than anything he wanted to say no. But how could he? Trapped by his promise to a dying man, he had no choice but to continue down a path he had not looked to tread.

“Yes,” he said, making certain to hide his resentful distaste. “You have my leave.”

Venette’s smile was dazzling. “Wonderful. I shall make sure all of Maris’s girlish qualms are soothed, I promise. You’ll not regret this, Morgan. You’ll see.”

He was already regretting it. “Venette,” he said, and kissed her hand in farewell.

Rumm said nothing beyond a murmured, “Of course, sir,” after being told Councillor Danfey would be in his workroom until dinner. Which was wise of him, because Venette’s impertinent interference still rankled.

An hour later, warded in his attic, Morgan paced from wall to wall. Scattered on his workbench, the remnants of yet another unsuccessful attempt to reconfigure Hartigan’s transmutation incant. He couldn’t begin to fathom why it so stubbornly resisted dissection. If not actually simple, the task should at least be straightforward. All incants operated under the same principle, energies binding each syllable like individually connected links in a chain. Break each connection, break the links into separate component pieces, and a new configuration could be created. Cylte’s treatise on the subject was perfectly concise and moreover it worked. He’d proven that it worked, on a half dozen other incants.

But Hartigan’s incant remained recalcitrant.

With a harshly expelled breath, Morgan returned to his copy of Cylte’s book. Re-read, yet again, the step-by-step instructions for the dissolution of an incant. Then he gathered together in his scorched and scarred mortar the powdered gedlef, the tincture of gorabim, a volatile pinch of crystalised anakaris, close cousin to azafris but not quite so restricted. His supply of all three counter-catalysts was dwindling. And thanks to Sallis Arkley, once he’d emptied his jars he would have to wait a goodly while before daring to purchase more of each ingredient.

Even a councillor had to tread carefully, at times.