Ink-stained, her head pounding, Barl pushed aside her scribbled-in journal and pressed the heels of her hands against her dry, tired eyes. Frustration was a hot ball in the pit of her stomach, a creeping heat over every bit of her skin.

With a wordless cry, she leapt to her feet and stamped about the library.

“This is ridiculous! I know it’s possible. Anything is possible. All I have to do is find the right incant to point the way!”

But she was beginning to suspect the right incant might not be here. Or, if it was, she had found it already, and already discarded it because she couldn’t see what she needed to see.

I promised Morgan we’d find a way to cheat death. I won’t break my word to him. I won’t. I can’t.

Because sometimes, in the middle of the night, as she lay awake beside him watching him sleep, he wept while he was dreaming… and begged her not to die.

She spun round at a knock on the library door. “Yes? What is it, Rumm? What do you want?”

The door opened, revealing the master servant’s very blank face. “Mage Lindin. You have a visitor.”

Lady Martain.

“Mage Lindin,” the councillor said, sweeping in past Rumm. Her green silk tunic was rumpled. “Am I disturbing you? I’m sorry.”

Barl looked at Rumm. “Thank you. Don’t bother with tea. Lady Martain won’t be staying very long.”

As Rumm pulled the door closed, Venette Martain dropped uninvited into a chair. “Where is Morgan?”

With a great show of indifference, Barl swept together her notebook and jottings and pushed them into a drawer.

“Asleep.”

“Asleep?” The woman stared out of the window. “But it’s barely past sunset.”

“He’s been working very hard. And I’m sure it never occurred to him that he should ask your permission before retiring.”

Venette Martain’s eyes narrowed. “Mind your tongue.”

There was enough sharpness in the woman’s voice to make her wince.

Careful, Barl. You’re not Lady Danfey quite yet.

“Lady Martain, was there something you wanted?”

“I wanted to see Morgan.”

“Well, I’m not going to wake him.”

“He’s been mageworking, you say? You both have?”

There was something oddly intent in the look Venette Martain gave her. “A little,” Barl said, instinct prompting the lie. “Hardly at all. Mostly he’s been teaching me various theories of magework. Since I’m denied the College—” She flicked her hand at the book-lined room. “This has become my new schoolroom. He’s a very good teacher. I’m learning a lot.”