“No, sir. He awaits you in the library,” said Rumm. If he was taken aback, he was too well trained to show it. “Shall I bring sherry?”

He could do with something stronger, but that would only make Rumm stare. “Yes.”

Ranmer was dealt with quickly enough. After a closer examination, the pother could safely say that Lord Danfey’s collapse had no obvious cause. Still, it should be remembered that a man in his doubtful condition was subject to relapse. The good news was that he rested comfortably, and there were new draughts and possets and herbals for him to take. He was to be kept quiet, no excitement. A few days rest should see some improvement.

It wasn’t hard to hear what hadn’t been said aloud. Smothering grief, Morgan kept Ranmer company with one glass of sherry apiece, then saw the pother off the estate and turned his attention to letter writing. A note to Parnel Garrick, explaining the situation, begging leave to delay further talk of a wedding until his father was more settled. Another to Maris, saying much the same. Courteous in tone. Regretful. No mention of what had happened between them in that closet. Such a mistake he’d made there. He’d been a fool to let himself be ruled by his body.

I will be certain not to make that mistake again.

With the notes sealed and set aside, he returned upstairs. Heavily dosed with soporific, his father heaved for air, his paper-thin eyelids lowered over sunken, restless eyes. Seated beside him, Morgan closed his own eyes and conjured Barl Lindin’s arresting face to mind.

She broke my ward. She broke my binding. She challenged me beneath my own roof and won. She is glorious. But can she do what she claims? Can she complete my reworking of Hartigan’s transmutation? For if she can… if she can…

Thud, thud, thud, boomed his heart within his chest. Blood heated. Desire stirred. Not the brutish, lustful passion he’d felt for Maris Garrick. Nothing so simple as the need to rut and fuck. This was sharper. Cleaner. Mixed pleasure and pain. This was—this was—

Love.

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-two

The flaw in your thinking is here.” Barl pointed at Morgan Danfey’s scrawled sequence for the reworked incant. “The flow of energy through the fourth to fifth syllabic vibration. On its own the incant keeps balance, but the second sigil—this one—” She tapped her finger to the page. “It’s counter-compatible. The energies work against each other, you must see it.”

Past midnight in his glimlit workroom. Below their feet, the mansion slept soundly. Standing beside her, the councillor shook his head.

“No, I do not see it. Nor do I find it credible that you see this apparent flaw, given all you’ve done is read my notes.”