“I should leave the problem aside until the morrow, sir,” said Rumm, abruptly at his elbow. “There’s very little a sound night’s sleep can’t solve or mend.”

The man prowled like a cat, curse him. It would be unforgivable if he weren’t indispensable. A Doranen like Rumm, born with little or no mage ability, was a sorry creature, forced into manual labours, farming and animal husbandry and cartering and the like, or to the serving of his betters. But by virtue of his dignity and wholly discreet efficiency, Rumm managed to serve yet still command a modicum of respect.

Morgan smiled at him. “Perhaps you’re right.”

“I have looked in on his lordship, sir,” said Rumm. “He’s sleeping comfortably enough. Though the hour advances, I am loath to wake him for a meal, most especially since his appetite today has been finicky. I expect it will be more robust come breakfast.”

“Do you?” he said, ready to rap the man’s knuckles for lecturing. But the reprimand withered when he saw the sympathy in his servant’s steady gaze. “Yes. Well, if it’s not, we must send to Ranmer for a remedy and let Lord Danfey kick as he will.”

Rumm collected the used plates and cutlery, the emptied wine jug and goblet. “A note for the pother is already written, sir. But I trust it will not be required. Shall I bring you a brandy nightcap, or do you now retire?”

“What time is it?” he said, glancing at the betrothal clock on the library fireplace mantel. A gift from Luzena, dainty and delicate, as she had been. “Not so very late. I have an hour’s more reading in me.”

“An hour’s extra rest would be more to the purpose,” said Rumm, blunter than usual. “Or when next I send to Ranmer he’ll be coming to tend you. Sir.”

“I see.” Prickled between amusement and offence, Morgan raised an eyebrow. “You presume to order my affairs, Rumm?”

“Sir, I presume to do my duty,” Rumm replied, unmoved. “I serve the Danfey family in all things.”

He waved a hand. “Then serve it now by bringing me a snifter of brandy.”

“Sir.”

But Rumm was right. With the brandy glowing in his belly, and the relentless anxiety for his father joining with his day’s arcane failures to brew a pain behind his eyes, Morgan found the words of the Compendium swimming like fish on the pages. Defeated, he closed the book. But before retiring, he stopped to check on his father. The old man’s wheezing filled his bedchamber with a bitter song of slow decay.

Stranded in the open doorway, summoned glimfire showing him the truth he’d pretended to accept and now couldn’t escape, Morgan felt a wave of grief crash over him, stripping him of years. He was a small boy again, losing his mother, adrift in a world grown cold and cruel. His heart boomed in his chest like a tolling funeral bell. Greve Danfey was yet a young man, as the mages of Dorana counted time. Brice Varen could give him ten years and he remained hale, hearty and spry. Why should that not be so for the sleeping man before him?