The rantina was drawing to its elegant conclusion. Making his way around the edge of the dance floor, watching the dancers dip and sidestep and turn, he was jolted by a memory. The night he’d asked Luzena to wed him. They’d attended the new year’s ball in Elvado, with the city’s central plaza glimlit and turned into a fantastic outdoor ballroom. Deeply in love, they’d danced the rantina around the fountain with two hundred other ranked mages. He could still feel her hand in his, see the delight in her as the mageworked water formed itself into a couple and danced the rantina with them. He remembered her joyous laughter, and then the warm press of her lips on his as she breathed yes into his soul.

Maris Garrick was watching him. Not boldly, she wasn’t brazen, but her gaze was on him just the same. Her softly rounded cheeks were tinted becomingly pink. Some womanly art had touched colour to her lips, to her eyelids, and darkened her long lashes. Her silver-gilt hair was coaxed into shining waves, fixed with jewel-studded gold pins. She was more than acceptable, more than merely pretty. She wasn’t Luzena, but he couldn’t blame her for that.

Halting before her, he bowed. “Mage Garrick. I must remember to scold Venette later. She neglected to seat us side by side at dinner.”

The glint in her eye suggested that Maris Garrick only pretended primness. “Am I to be flattered, Councillor Danfey, or defend our hostess?”

He glanced across the dance floor to Venette, who was flirting now with Illim Terenz. He and his sister, Jeen, who’d been dancing with Reb Flory, weren’t First Family, but their theatre works were renowned throughout Dorana and even in Brantone. Such success made it possible to wink at their lack of ranking, justify their inclusion at the most exclusive gatherings… and excuse their occasional, inevitable social lapses.

“Venette needs no defending by anyone, Mage Garrick,” he said, faintly smiling. “And I am more likely to need protection from her.”

“In that case, I’ll be flattered,” said Maris Garrick. “Lady Martain told you my name?”

“She told me if I came to dinner this evening I’d not be disappointed. She was right.” He looked at the girl’s parents, discreetly watching from a distance. “This is an informal gathering. How strict should I be in observing the protocols?”

“I think you might now call me Maris. And I will call you Morgan.” Maris Garrick’s gaze lowered, modestly. “Unless of course you’d find such familiarity offensive.”

Having taken a short break after the rantina, the musicians were returned to their pipes and drums and strings. A brief trill announced the next dance, a leisurely glide.

Morgan held out his hand. “On the contrary. It delights me. Maris, shall we dance?”