“Be warned, Councillor Danfey,” Ranmer said, frigid with fury. “Accuse me of incompetence—or worse yet, some deliberate malfeasance—and I will lodge a formal complaint with the Council. You have neither grounds nor proof to question my reputation. Furthermore, such an attack on my good name and competence will ensure that not only will I never set foot here again, you will struggle to find any pother prepared to take such a risk.”

Shaken, Morgan retreated. Was he wrong? Did his father’s collapse have nothing to do with Sallis Arkley? Was he letting his rage at the man, his frustrations over Maris Garrick, his fear for his father, affect his judgement? Possibly. And if Ranmer were indeed blameless, to lose his skills now would be a disaster.

“Forgive me, sir,” he said hoarsely. “I am not quite myself.”

Ranmer looked at him. “No,” he said at last, unbending. “Which is understandable. Councillor, do not let dismay overturn reason. Lord Danfey has rallied. And he’ll gather even more strength from your continued presence, I’m sure. Assuming you will be here some goodly time?”

“Yes. I’m staying.” Morgan looked again at his father, stuporous beneath his blankets. “But can you remain in the mansion tonight, Ranmer? I need you to see my father through this crisis.”

Ranmer shook his head. “Alas, Councillor, I have several urgent cases come suddenly upon me. But I shall not leave until I am confident that Lord Danfey is in no imminent danger. And of course, should there be another crisis, I will return.”

It would have to do. In truth, he was fortunate Ranmer would do so much. “Very well.” Morgan returned to the bed. “My lord? I have good news that will cheer you.”

With an effort his father dragged open rheumy eyes. “It’s done?” he croaked. “You’re handfasted?”

Even were they alone, he’d not have confessed the whole truth of his time with Maris. Lord Danfey could be crude, but he had old-fashioned notions. “I have Parnel Garrick’s consent. His daughter will be the next Lady Danfey.”

“Morgan…” His father’s weak smile revealed bloodied gums and missing teeth. “That is well done. I knew you’d not disappoint.”

“Sleep now, my lord,” he said, and kissed his father’s clammy brow. “I’ll be here when you wake.”

Downstairs, he found Rumm in the foyer, exchanging old cut flowers for fresh. Seeing him, the master servant fumbled a dewy spray of violet golifloss. “Sir, his lordship?”

“Holds fast.”

A shuddering breath. “I’m pleased to hear it.”

“I know you are, Rumm,” he said, and briefly clasped the man’s shoulder. “Tell me, where is Mage Lindin?”