Almost more slowly than he could bear, he used his heavy stone pestle to grind the counter-catalysts into a stinking, sloppy paste. But if he tried to rush he’d spoil the concoction. He’d already made that mistake twice. Not again.

At last, satisfied with the counter-catalyst’s consistency, he daubed it over seven harmonic prisms, one for each syllable of the incant. The eerily phosphorescent amber crystals pulsed sluggishly beneath their greenish-grey coating. He could feel the latent power stir, like a hunting hound catching its first scent of the prey.

It was time.

Remove the mortar and pestle from the main bench. Tidy away his precious reserves of catalyst ingredient. Take a moment to breathe out all doubt, anxiety and frustration. Then slowly, steadily, recite the seven separate syllables of Hartigan’s uncooperative incant.

One by one, the harmonic prisms captured the syllables’ raised energies. One by one, they started to hum. To shiver. To burn…

… and burn out.

A heartbeat of shocked dismay gave way to overwhelming rage. Dimly Morgan felt himself snatch up the nearest crystal, heedless of its blackened heat. He shouted, incoherent, and threw it at the wall. Even as it shattered to stinking shards he was snatching up the next, not caring how his fingers blistered, his palm scorched, not caring that he was howling like a crossbowed wolf. In the end all seven crystals burst against the attic wall, scattering his failure over the floor.

Heaving for air, almost sobbing like a child, he collapsed over his workbench and pressed his burned, hurting hands hard to his face.

How can I fail? This is Dorana’s future. And if I do not conquer this incant… if I cannot find my way…

Then Dorana would fall.

The binding might have ruined her time-sense, but the pitch dark night outside the Danfey mansion, with its needle-sharp pricking of stars, told Barl that the hour was late.

And here am I doing the rich lord’s dishes, like some magickless skivvy.

Which of course she was. Up to her elbows in greasy, cooling water, skin wrinkled like ancient prunes, scrubbing charred meat juices and cake crumbs off old, heavy pans.

At least when I washed dishes at home I’d eaten what was cooked in them first.

But she’d not touched a mouthful of the Danfeys’ rich repast. No, she’d spooned down plain mutton broth and bread that was practically stale. How she missed Remmie’s bread. Hot from the oven, full of seeds and honey, soaked through with melted butter, making her smile.

Her fingers clutched the scrubbing brush, painfully tight. No. No. She mustn’t think about Remmie.

Brisk footsteps in the corridor beyond the glimlit scullery. She looked up as Master Servant Rumm entered, as neat and tidy now, after the long day, as he’d been when first she laid eyes on him.