“Some hours past midnight,” said Ranmer, bending low beside the bedside chair. “And I must tell you there is now nothing more I can do.”

He couldn’t bring himself to look at the bed. “Then go.”

Ranmer hesitated, then straightened. “I have other patients, Councillor. They—”

“I said go! And be certain you hold your tongue on this, Ranmer. If you don’t I will hear of it… and I won’t be amused.”

The pother collected his coat and leather bag and let himself out of the hushed chamber. In the hearth the fire crackled, obscenely cheerful, its scented logs not quite masking the smell of impending death.

Untouched by the flames’ warmth, Morgan steeled himself then looked at his father, so frail beneath his burden of blankets. His life measured in embers.

The end has come so swiftly. Ranmer said we’d have months yet. It seems the fool lied.

The rise and fall of his father’s chest, the flaring of his nostrils, were almost imperceptible. But then his head shifted on his pillows and he muttered something under his breath. Eyes burning, Morgan took his father’s hand and felt the terrible, bone-deep cold stab through his trembling fingers.

“My lord,” he whispered. “I’m here.”

His father’s darkly veined eyelids fluttered open. “Morgan.” A slow breath, rattling deep in the throat. “New daughter. Where is she?”

His gaze flicked upward, toward the attic. And then he remembered. No, he means Maris. “She’s with her family, sir. She sends you her love.”

Which was true. Twice a week like clockwork, Maris Garrick wrote him letters. Good wishes for Lord Danfey mixed with inane gossip, always ending the same way: I do hope to see you soon. He made sure not to answer all of them. When he did reply, he kept it short. His lordship slowly recovers. Your wishes are kindly received. No more encouragement than that. How could he encourage her? His heart was full of Barl Lindin.

“Morgan.”

Leaning closer, he gagged. The oozing sores covering his father’s face and scalp were odorous and putrid with pus. Nothing Ranmer had given the ailing man could keep the rot at bay.

“She should be here,” his father wheezed, clouded eyes alive with anger. “Maris Garrick. You should be rutting with her. You promised me your son.”

“My lord, don’t distress yourself. There will be a son, in time. I will—”

“Too late.” His father’s voice broke. “You’ve failed me, Morgan. Without an heir to follow you, the Danfey estate will go to your mother’s cousins. The Jarralts will take all.” Blood-tinged tears leaked down his cheeks. “Ah, what a ruination it is, to have a feckless son.”