It wasn’t only a question of dignity. Greve Danfey had enemies, and his plight could be—would be—used against him, to hurt him and his son. Only a fool handed an adversary a weapon.

And of all the things I am, a fool is not amongst them.

With an exclamation of disgust his father let the spoon drop, plucked the napkin free and hurled it to the floor, then slumped in dour, frustrated silence. Knowing that to speak now would do no good, Morgan finished his own meal, drained his goblet of wine, dabbed his lips clean and pushed his emptied plate away. Only then did he look to his morose father.

The unconsumed pea and ham soup was growing cold, a thin skin congealing across its porridgy green surface. Already today Lord Danfey had refused his breakfast. He could not be permitted to refuse luncheon as well, for beneath his padded tunic he was close to skin and bone. So if he must once again be fed like a babe, so be it. No loving son could sit idly by as his father willfully starved.

“Perhaps one more mouthful, my lord,” he murmured, picking up the spoon and dipping it into the bowl. “So I can make a good report to Pother Ranmer when next he visits.”

With a feeble wave of one hand his father sent bowl and spoon flying across the chamber. The heavily aromatic soup splashed tablecloth, wall, floor and Feenish rug indiscriminately, painting Lord Danfey’s displeasure wide for all Dorana to see.

“My lord…” Morgan frowned at his pea-stained sleeve. “You must eat.”

His father sneered. “I’d eat if those cursed servants brought me food. That’s not food. It’s slop.”

“Ranmer said—”

“By the scales of justice!” his father bellowed. “Do not prate to me of pothers! Do not task me with soup! Do not—do not—” He broke off, gasping, the stubborn phlegm curdling noisily in his chest. One frail fist beat at his breastbone, forcing more angry words into his throat. “You say you regret displeasing me, Morgan, yet what do you do but find ways to salt my wounds? You look to feed me as though I was an infant, you dismiss my concerns about your magework, and you refuse to pay attention to your single most pressing duty.”

Stung by the attack, Morgan sat back in his chair. He lashes out because he’s shamed. Because he cannot reconcile himself to what he’s become. But understanding why his father railed at him didn’t mean he wasn’t hurt.

“My lord, you speak in riddles. I have shirked no duty.”

“No?” His father stabbed at the dining room’s frescoed ceiling with one pointed finger. “Then instead of locking yourself away in that attic of yours, experimenting, why are you not busy finding yourself a wife? How little you must truly care for the Danfey name and legacy, to leave me languishing with no hope of our future! Are you so eager to call this mansion and my title your own that you’d seek to kill me with despair?”