“Since you have disturbed me, Morgan, I reserve the right to speak as I choose,” said Sallis, his voice cutting. “And I choose to warn you, not for your sake but for the Council’s and the welfare of Dorana. Surrender custody of Barl Lindin, hand her to a judiciary—to be chosen by Brice, I think—and wash your hands of this matter before they are soiled beyond hope.”

His temper, always tightly leashed in the presence of this man, strained—strained—and snapped. He stood, heedless of his gaping robe.

“My lord, it seems to me the presumption here is yours. My conduct is not for your perusal or comment. My conduct in all matters is above reproach. Would that I could claim the same of you.”

Sallis bared his teeth. “Whelp. Don’t think to cross me. I’ll slice your career to ribbons raising less sweat than this hot room. Or did you think your elevation to the Council contained no element of probation within it?”

“You are keen to remind me, yet again, that the mantle of councillor comes with no sinecure!” he retorted. “Why has it not occurred to you that not even a lord is immune from scrutiny?”

“You threaten me?” Sallis laughed. “Don’t think to see me quake with terror, Morgan. You’re no more threatening than a moth.”

He stepped closer. “Threats are for men who have no arrows in their quiver. But I am well armed. You deny my pending incants for no better reason than spite. And if I make a formal complaint, Lord Varen will have to act on it or be held derelict in his duty. That means a formal investigation, and no mage of your affluence and reach can hope to claim his hands are entirely unstained. And if you think Brice Varen will bruise himself for your sake, you are a sadly deluded man… my lord.”

Sallis glared at him, silenced.

“As I’m sure you already know,” he said softly, “I attend the Garrick house party to make a change in my status. Should your pettiness damage me in that pursuit, I will have satisfaction. And when I am finished, I won’t be the mage who’s dismissed from the Council. So my advice to you, Lord Arkley, is this: approve my pending incants, or it will be your career shredded. Not mine.”

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Nineteen

The mansion felt empty with Morgan Danfey away.

Which was ridiculous, what with Rumm and the other servants underfoot, and his lordship penned on the third floor, reclusive but nonetheless vitally present. Nevertheless… it was true.

Rubbing beeswax into the second floor staircase banister, her fingers slick with it, her skin scented like a honeycomb, Barl bit her lip. How was she supposed to wheedle the councillor into unbinding her for good if he wasn’t on the estate?

And I can wheedle him, I know it. All I need is more time.