“Then formally say so, Brice. Or continue without me. I cannot tarry.”

“We are concluded,” said Varen, after the briefest hesitation. “And by all means, Lord Arkley, inform Hahren of our decision.”

“You should excuse him,” said Shari Frieden, once Sallis was safely out of hearing. “There’s trouble with his youngest.”

Nodding, Varen collected his various papers. “I have heard something of it. He’d do well to curb the boy. First Family or not, Peynten will be brought before a justice if he cannot control his wayward impulse to wreak havoc.”

“I’ve heard none of this,” said Morgan to Venette, his voice lowered, while Varen and Shari widened their censure of Dorana’s youth. “Enlighten me.”

Venette’s rings flashed in the sunlight as she playfully tapped his forearm. “A regrettable prank run out of hand. A boy from an unranked family is left disfigured, and the father is making a great deal of fuss.”

“Is he not entitled to?”

“Of course,” said Venette. “But whether it’s wise is another matter. After all, the boy’s not dead. Tell me, Morgan dear, if you’ve unburied yourself from the Danfey estate does that mean I can entice you to an informal dinner party this evening? Excellent food and wine, pleasing company.” Her flashing fingers stroked his sleeve. “Say you’ll come.”

He thought of his ailing father and opened his mouth to refuse. Then he recalled, again, his promise.

No grandson to give him, without first I find a wife.

“Informal, you say?”

Venette smiled, revealing wicked dimples. Unlike most Doranen women she wore her hair cropped daringly short. She’d even been known to streak strands of copper colour through it, though today it was uniformly gold.

“Just a few friends. We serve drinks at seven, and after dinner there’ll be dancing. Do come. You deserve a little respite from care.”

Having abandoned their disapproving duet, Lord Varen and Shari Frieden were looking ready to depart the chamber. Morgan slid from his chair and offered Venette a flourishing bow.

“My lady, I shall attend with pleasure.”

“Morgan,” said Varen, his papers and parchments tucked under one arm. “You’d do well to convey my best wishes to Lord Danfey.”

This time his bow was much more restrained. Brice Varen was largely the reason for his father being denied a place on the Council of Mages. Sentiments like that flirted with hypocrisy.

“My lord, he’ll be heartened to know you’re thinking of him.”

A glitter in Varen’s eyes suggested disbelief. “His illness must be a source of sorrow to all, but you have wider duties, Morgan. It’s past time you resumed them.”

“I assure you, my lord, I am ready to play my part in Council matters.”

“Indeed,” said Varen, with the thinnest of smiles. “Then I shall give close thought to how best we can use you.”

He offered another bow. “My lord, I serve at your pleasure.”

“And you do, you know, Morgan,” said Venette, once they were alone. “You should also know that two days ago, Shari and Sallis argued for your suspension.”