“Not for this,” his father said, jerking his chin at the workbench and the stained crucibles. “Though I do question your flouting of the rules. No, your magework could never displease me, Morgan. But it can frighten me. It does frighten me.”

“My lord—” He stepped closer. “There is nothing to fear. My skills are more than equal to this small task.”

His father raised an eyebrow. “Or so you believe.”

“My lord, belief implies uncertainty. I have no doubts.”

“And perhaps I would be less frightened if you did.”

With an effort Morgan kept himself relaxed. This is his weakness talking. He has grown an old man before my eyes. “If you are unsettled, my lord, I suspect there is more than magework to blame. It is past time we sat down to luncheon. Ranmer was most particular that you pay close attention to your belly.”

“My belly is my business,” his father said, scowling. “None of yours, nor of any meddling pother.”

“Meddling Ranmer saved your life, my lord. We would both be well-served did you not forget that.”

His father grunted, not liking the reproof but knowing better than to contradict bald fact.

“Besides,” he added, coaxing, “if your private belly is not growling, mine is. And I would not sit at the table in solitary splendour. Shall we adjourn to the dining room?”

He braced himself for a tart reply, but instead his father looked around the attic workroom. “You are a fine mage, Morgan. I expect you will achieve feats no other mage in our history has even dreamed of attempting. But you would do well not to dismiss my call for caution as the ramblings of a decrepit.”

“My lord, I do not,” he said, prepared to tell that one lie. “Your advice is always welcome.”

His father sniffed. “But rarely heeded.”

And there was the tartness he’d been expecting. Best sweeten the old man before their relationship soured entirely. “If you’re in the mood for dispensing advice, my lord, I would appreciate your wisdom regarding my work here. After luncheon, perhaps?”

“Perhaps,” said his father, grudging. Pretending indifference, though the gleam of pleasure in his eye said otherwise. “If you are determined to chart this course.”

“I am,” he said, pretending apology. “I must, if I would stay true to myself as a man and a mage.”

“Yes,” his father said, with a heavy sigh. “That would be the crux of it… and on that head I cannot complain.”

So in better accord they made their way downstairs to the dining room, where servants brought them their delayed midday repast. Scarcely tasting his own meal of cold chicken and dressed greens, from the corner of his eye Morgan watched his father’s half-hearted attempt to empty his bowl. Watched the old man’s shaking hand spill the soup from his spoon onto the tablecloth and down the broad napkin tucked into his padded brocade tunic.

It was a painful sight but he could not spare himself, no matter how much he might wish to or how deeply he ached for even a single day’s respite. He could not hand his father’s care to another. Lord Danfey’s dignity would not permit it. And in truth, neither would his own. Pother Ranmer he could trust never to speak of his father’s weakened condition, the occasional instability of intellect, but no other man or woman than that.