“You asked Parnel to grant her to you, and Parnel agreed! You’re wed with her now, Morgan, save for the ring and a public declaration. That means your place is with Maris. Go to her.”

He raised an eyebrow. “And am I answerable to you, Venette? Must I gain your permission before I live my life as I see fit?”

“Do not take that tone with me! Maris is crushed. You couldn’t be handling this courtship less adroitly if you tried. Do you want to have her slip through your fingers?”

“Oh, so you do care what I want?” he retorted. “This isn’t simply about Maris Garrick, whom you think of as a daughter.”

“Somebody has to,” said Venette, close to scowling. “Justice knows her mother is a ninny. It had to be me who—”

“Who what?” he prompted, when Venette turned to stare across the city as though seeing it for the first time. “Venette… what did you do?”

Her cheeks were tinted deep pink. She didn’t answer, or turn back.

“Venette,” he said, sharply enough to make her wince.

Wince, but not answer him.

A nasty, sneaking suspicion. A knifing twist in his guts. Maris, in the closet. So forward. So bold. Too bold for an unranked mage of gentle breeding. Enticing him. Seducing him.

Oh, Venette. Say you didn’t.

“It was your idea?” he whispered. “Her breaching? You’re the one who saw me thrust between her legs?”

“She came to me,” said Venette, her voice low and unsteady. “She asked me if I thought you desired her. She thought you did. She wasn’t sure. She loves you, Morgan. She wants you, more than anything. I told her about Luzena. I said your heart was healed, but scarred. I told her to give you a new and kinder memory. I said nobody would know if she took her pleasure sooner rather than later. If you both did. And that if you did…”

“Our handfasting would be assured.” He let out a slow and shuddering breath. “Well played, Venette. I must give you this game.”

She spun round. “I wasn’t playing! I just wanted to make certain. You carry Luzena’s memory in you like a shroud. I wanted you free of her, Morgan. I wanted you for Maris.”

Venette and his father, both forcing his hand. Both of them claiming love for him, neither of them offering him the smallest respect.

“And what you want, naturally, must come before all.”

“Morgan—” She took a step after him, her footfall unsteady on the balcony’s smooth tiles. “Don’t walk away from me. Don’t—”

Ignoring her, he let the balcony door slam shut between them and made his way to the Council chamber.

“Morgan,” said Lord Varen, his tone mild, his eyes wary. “You are come a little earlier than the allotted time.”