“Lady Brislyn—” Remmie cleared his throat. “If I might ask… the danger from Dorana’s neighbours. Is it real? You truly believe they intend to harm us?”

“Mage Lindin…” Lady Brislyn’s lips thinned. “I think if we cannot solve this crisis, our neighbours will do their best to slaughter us all.”

“Which is why I did what I did. So our neighbours would fail.”

Startled, they all turned. Stared. Flanked by the duty mages sent to retrieve him, Morgan stared back. Unsmiling. Very cold.

Barl shook off Remmie’s fiercely restraining hand and crossed the antechamber, her eyes never leaving his haughty, beautiful face.

“Morgan.”

He touched his lips to hers, lightly. “Barl.”

Palm resting on his silk-clad chest, feeling his heartbeat and his warmth, she looked up into his eyes. Saw something in them that made her skin crawl, and her blood chill.

“I love you.”

“You drugged me,” he said, faintly smiling.

“You were exhausted. You needed to sleep.”

“True. And I did sleep. But now I am awake.”

She watched her fingers slowly close until they were clutching his dark green tunic. “It’s gone too far, Morgan. We’ve gone too far.”

His mild gaze shifted past her, to fall on Remmie and Venette Martain and Lady Brislyn. “Is that what they’ve told you?”

“No, Morgan, it’s what I’m saying.” She shook him, just a little bit. “I need you to hear me. What happened to Rumm—what you did to Rumm—what we did—”

“It upset you,” he said softly, his hand covering hers. With a sigh he lowered his forehead until it rested on the top of her head. “I am sorry. I never wanted you to see that. And you have my word you’ll never see it again.”

“So we can stop now?” she whispered. “No more changelings like Rumm? We can work together to heal Dorana? I know you think it can’t be done, Morgan, but there’s nothing we can’t do when we join our hands and our hearts.”

“Barl, Barl…” His warm breath sighed over her hair. “You never said a truer thing.”

His lips captured hers, entreating, demanding. She felt her bones turn to molten gold, felt passion’s dizzying rush.

“Lord Danfey,” said Brice Varen’s cold voice, behind her. “The Council awaits you.”

With a groan he lifted his head. Rubbed his thumb over her lips. “Wait here for me, my love. I won’t be long.”

She watched him walk to the Council chamber, to Brice Varen who stood in the wide open doorway, his lined face stiff with disapproval. His lordship stepped back, in a parody of hostly invitation, and Morgan swept past him with an elegant disdain.

Without warning, almost painfully, she was swept head to toe by a dreadful, dark foreboding.

“No. Wait,” she said, as Venette Martain and Lady Brislyn moved to follow him into the chamber. “Please. Just… wait.”