“After a fashion, Ehrig,” he said, shrugging. “But the Danfey estate lies in sight of Elvado. Here we are surrounded by vast tracts of—” Nothing. “Delightful farmland. I do promise you, there’s a difference.”

“Of course there’s a difference!” said Ehrig’s mother, close to tittering. “Silly boy. Now do take your seat, Ehrig, so the servants can fill our plates.”

Parnel Garrick darted a quelling look at his son, then followed his wife’s lead and laughed. “He’s a prankster, is Ehrig. Full of youth’s juices. Always has been.”

Ehrig Garrick was past thirty. If he knew what was good for him, he’d dry up his youthful juices and conduct himself like a sober man.

Once I’m married to his sister I’ll give him no choice in that. I won’t have my reputation harmed by the likes of Ehrig Garrick.

Morgan smiled again. “And why not? How dull life would be without a dash of levity.”

Little sighs of relief from Parnel Garrick and his wife, Beys. Beside him, Venette drowned dry amusement in a mouthful of wine. She knew him too well. He must strive to remember that.

Parnel Garrick nodded to his senior dining servant, and a few moments later a parade of lesser servants filed into the conservatory, burdened with plates and tureens and bowls of sauced and spiced meat, fish and fowl. The Garricks’ cook prided himself on his wide knowledge of foreign foodery, and so inflicted upon them dishes inspired by Dorana’s mostly uncivilised neighbours.

“Eat hearty, Morgan. There’s plenty more where that came from.”

But he’d not taken his first mouthful of pungently spiced fish when the Garricks’ master servant slipped into the conservatory and bent to whisper in Parnel’s surprised ear.

“Morgan—” Deliberately, Maris’s father set down his knife and fork. “There is news.”

He knew the tidings before being told. Felt Venette’s hand come to rest on his shoulder. Though he was out of charity with her, still… the comforting touch was welcome.

“Lord Danfey,” he said, his voice steady. “He’s—”

“Not dead,” Parnel Garrick said quickly. “But he’s taken a bad turn.”

“Oh, Morgan!” Maris slid from her chair and hurried to his side, as presumptuous as her brother. “I’m so sorry. Tell me, what can I do?”

You can at least pretend you’re not seeing yourself as Lady Danfey, my dear.

He pressed her forearm, a neatly correct gesture. “Hold a good thought for him, Maris. Though my father is not a man to give up without a fight, this enemy is fearsome.”

“You’ll go to him, of course?” said Venette. “Morgan, if you’re not properly satisfied with his pother, you need only say so. I’ll have—”

“I will,” he said, turning to her. The sincerity of her concern for him stole his voice, for a moment. “Thank you.”