“And the harmonics are holding?”

“Of course. Why, did you doubt me?”

“Every good mage fosters a healthy sense of skepticism, Councillor. You know that.”

He laughed again, so excited. “I know you’ll have to say you’re sorry!”

“Oh.”

She stared at the greeny-gold rook’s feather lightly held in his fingers. It was oddly sheened, as the Trindeki beetle’s armoured greeny-gold carapace had been sheened. Her gaze shifted past the feather, past Morgan, to rest on the workbench. Only a wet smear of the beetle remained.

Funny. I thought… I hoped… it would vanish entirely. That way—

Morgan stepped sideways, shielding her. “Don’t look. Don’t spoil this. Barl… we did it.”

When she held out her hand, palm up, he laid the feather across it. The unexpected weight sang through her bones. It was still warm. Still alive with the power that had moulded and melded and made it something new.

Something that has never before been seen in Dorana.

“Try to bend it,” Morgan suggested.

She tried, but the feather remained straight.

“Now try to break it. Go on. Throw it on the floor and do your worst.”

“Morgan—”

“Go on!” he insisted. “Try!”

So she dropped the feather, jumping a little as it struck the wooden floorboards with a clatter. And then she stamped on it, hard, with the sturdy heel of her shoe.

“Ow!”

Laughing again, Morgan retrieved it. “You see? Didn’t I tell you that—”

“Councillor! Councillor!”

And that was Rumm. Morgan’s bloodied face went very still. Heart aching, Barl took the feather back from him.

“Go,” she said gently. “I’ll put this place to rights. But make sure to clean yourself. You don’t want to frighten his lordship.”

As the attic door banged shut behind him, she laid the transmuted feather on the end of the workbench. Couldn’t stop herself from flinching at the heavy, unfeatherlike sound it made. Flinched again as from the corner of her eye she caught another glimpse of those smeared beetle remains.

This is no different than the rabbits used to demonstrate Mage Tranter’s incant at Winsun. Besides, Dorana must come first.

Quickly, efficiently, she cleaned up the mess. And after that she summoned the funeral clock to the attic. It was almost completed. Only one or two finishing touches required. She should do that now, just in case…

And if she kept herself busy with clock-maging, she’d have no time to think about transmutations. About how it felt to be the first mage in history to transmute a living creature. How the power of the incant had flooded through her like fire, like honey, like Morgan’s lips in a kiss.

No, no, no. Best not think about that.

“Councillor?”

Startled by the touch on his arm, Morgan jerked his head up. “Ranmer. What time is it?”