On the dance floor, four glimlit couples swirled through the lilting music. Their constant motion meant he played hide-and-seek with demure Maris Garrick, neatly wrapped in cream and gold brocade and slender as a lily. He thought her shy smile hinted at secrets. Intriguing.

“She’s scarcely more than a child, Venette,” he said, angry with himself for being stirred. “She’s escorted here by her parents, for pity’s sake. Do you think I’m a cradle-snatcher?”

“No, my dear,” said Venette, serene. “I think you’re a man in search of a wife.”

Like the Garricks, her husband stood on the far side of the dance floor. Since he was in close conversation with Stim and Harele Boqur, it was safe to show a snarling face to Orwin’s bride.

“Venette, I’ll thank you to mind your business while I mind mine. Indeed, if Maris Garrick is to be so highly recommended, allow me to recommend that you snare her for your eldest nephew.”

Instead of scolding, or taking offence, Venette laughed then swallowed a generous mouthful of wine. “My dear, you snap at flies. Tobe was matched before he learned to walk. Now do stop being tiresome. I know how much you resent anyone dabbling in your privy affairs but I don’t do it to hurt you. I’m your friend, and you should listen to my excellent advice.”

“Your excellent nagging,” he muttered, and emptied his own glass. He wanted to glare at her, but found his gaze tugged back to Maris Garrick. Even as he stared at the girl, his fingers found the shape of his locket, buttoned safe beneath his dark purple brocade tunic. “Why should I think this Garrick daughter will suit me?”

“Aside from the fact that I tell you she will?” Venette sighed. “Morgan, if I weren’t so fond of you I believe I’d be quite cross. Maris has exemplary magework, she is sweet and biddable, and her family is more highly ranked than yours. Indeed, my dear, for those very reasons were she not a pretty girl I would still push you toward her.”

But Maris Garrick was pretty, he couldn’t deny it. There’d be no hardship in bedding her. Add that to her social standing and surely his father would approve.

“You think my place on the Council overcomes the delicate matter of unequal family ranking?”

“That, and the fact you’ll soon enough be Lord Danfey,” said Venette, her painted lips curved in a small cat smile. Then she raised a finger. “No biting, Morgan. Palatable or not, it’s the truth. Turn down your suit and she’ll be some years waiting for another chance to become Lady Maris. The marriage market is at present scanty.”

It was also humiliating.

I can’t do this. Am I stallion for parading? Is that girl a mare in heat? There is no dignity here, no honour. We barter titles and fertility like hawkers from Ranoush.

Sickened, he turned away from the dance floor where six couples now jigged like giggling children set free from the nursery. No dignity there, either.