“And that’s why you should take the first step, my dear,” said Orwin, squeezing her hand. “We both know Morgan is his stubborn father’s son. Go to him. You’ll not regret it. But the longer you let this silence drag on, the harder it will be to mend the breach. And if you leave it ’til it can’t be mended, well. That you’ll regret.”

“I’ll see,” she said, not wanting to admit he was right. “Perhaps I’ll try talking to Brice again, first. It won’t be called meddling if Lord Varen has a quiet word with him.”

Orwin disentangled their fingers, sighing. “You’ll do what you think is best, I’m sure.”

In other words, he thought she was wrong but had no desire for an argument.

Venette pushed her chair back and stood. “I have that meeting to attend. I must get ready, I don’t want to be late.” A glance through the solar window showed her blue sky and distant, lacy clouds. “It’s going to be a lovely day. I think I’ll walk to the Hall.”

But she’d not gone more than a few steps from the town house’s front gates when her name was called. Seeing who stood in the shadow of the large djelba shading the quiet street, she felt her eyes widen.

“Mage Ranowen?”

Dressed in a drab grey linen tunic, her head covered by a grey cotton shawl, the unranked College tutor glanced around them as though she were afraid of being seen.

“Lady Martain. Good morning. Have you a moment to talk?”

“Not really, no. I’m due at the Hall. You should make an appointment to see me there. Really, this is hardly—”

“I’m sorry,” said Mage Ranowen, stepping closer. “I don’t think it’s wise for us to discuss this in… a formal setting. Not when you and I don’t ordinarily cross paths.”

Perplexed, she stared at the inconvenient young woman. “Mage Ranowen, I am a busy woman. State your business plainly or be on your way.”

Bellamie Ranowen pressed two fingers to her temple, as though she were in pain. “I’m afraid there is something wrong in Dorana.”

“Wrong?” Out of patience entirely, Venette lifted her hand. “I think perhaps you’re unwell, Mage Ranowen. Seek a pother and do not—”

“Please! Lady Martain, you must hear me out!”

“Oh. Must I, indeed?”

“Yes,” the woman insisted. “For all our sakes, yes.”

So much for a leisurely, pleasurable stroll to the Hall. “Then I will listen to you as I walk to the plaza. And if that is too formal a setting for you, Mage Ranowen, then I suggest you unburden yourself to a tree.”