“I never said I was!” Mage Ranowen said, close to snapping. “And I think the only reason I’ve felt it is because I’ve been conducting some highly complex syllabic reconfigurations. That’s why I asked if you’d done any difficult magework of late. Whatever this discordant note is, whatever it means, it’s so faint I think it can only be sensed when a mage is deeply, deeply focused. And even then, perhaps not by many.”

“If it’s so faint, indeed, so serendipitous, then how do you know you’re not imagining it?”

Bellamie Ranowen leaned close. “Because I know!”

Justice save her, what an intense young woman. Perhaps the strain of teaching at the College was finally starting to show.

“Very well, Mage Ranowen,” Venette said, subtly easing aside. “You have a concern and you’ve rightly brought it to a councillor’s attention. You may return to the College, confident that your assertion will be investigated.”

Bellamie Ranowen looked at her, silent. And then she smiled, not diffidently at all. “Confident. Yes. Of course.” She stepped back. “Thank you for your time, Lady Martain. I am sorry to have disturbed you. I hope I’ve not made you late.”

Astonished, Venette watched the grey-clad mage retreat a short distance down the avenue, then slip into Nolin Lane.

“Extraordinary!” she murmured. “Quite extraordinary.”

But as she made her hurried way toward the plaza, and the Hall, she thought she might… just might… do a little complicated magework of her own that evening. On the principle that generally it was better to be safe than sorry.

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-four

Barl stole every moment she could to work on Lord Danfey’s funeral clock.

Morgan was too preoccupied to notice her theft. His father grew weaker every day, and every day demanded more of his time. He gave it, willingly, even though it meant less chance to magework. Even though it meant he left his father’s chambers almost speechless with fear and grief.

Helpless to help him, Barl poured all her empathy into the clock. And then struggled to hide her exhaustion from him during their snatched time in the attic. She was hiding it now, as they took advantage of Lord Danfey’s slumber to think of something other than illness and death.

After some tweaking and fiddling, the fabric incant she’d dreamed up had at last come out to her satisfaction. Wrapping herself in the silky, slithery golden material she’d created, she danced around the attic.

“I think every woman in Dorana would like to see herself dressed in this,” she said, smoothing her cheek against its cool elegance. “I can make it work just as well with gold and ruby, or with silver and sapphire, silver and amethyst, bronze and citrine… Morgan, I believe the possibilities are endless!”