“Enjoy your book, sir,” he said at last, cool and impersonal. “If you’re stirring by the time I take breakfast, perhaps if you’ve the appetite we can eat together. Otherwise I shall doubtless see you in between my Council duties, which resume now with some urgency. Good evening.”

“You’re walking out?” said his father, incredulous. “I’ll not have it! Stand where you are and give an account of your night’s doings. Morgan! Do you hear me? Morgan—”

He closed the chamber door on his father’s hoarse fury. Made his way to the attic with his own burden of temper, which he could not drive out no matter how hard his heels thudded on the stairs.

You’re not a man, you’re my son.

Close to weeping his rage and frustration, he summoned glimfire then raggedly paced his workroom floor. The air trapped inside the attic still reeked of burned azafris. It stank of his failure. His heart ached as it drubbed his ribs. One incant ratified, two more to come, and it wasn’t enough. A seat on the revered Council of Mages, and it wasn’t enough.

He’d have a son of his own by now, he’d be a man in his father’s eyes, if Luzena hadn’t died. So what was his remedy? Should he paper over any cracks of doubt, crush all his bittersweet memories and woo Maris Garrick until either he loved her or could live the lie? Wed her and bed her until she birthed him a son? Trembling, he staggered then dropped to his knees. Dropped again, to his hands, to his forearms, and bowed his spine until his forehead touched the floor. His unsteady fingers found the locket and gripped it to hurting.

If I have to, I’ll do it. Luzena, I’ll have to. And you’ll have to forgive me. You’re the one who left.

Eventually he unbent himself. Found his feet and stood like a man, like a proud mage of Dorana. And he was a man, no matter what his father said. It was foolish of him to set so much store by intemperate accusations.

“And I’ll not fall into that trap again,” he said, out loud so he could hear himself make the promise. “Let him rail, let him bluster, let him flog me with words. It’s only air. Greve Danfey does not define who I am.”

The glimfire he’d summoned showed him his workbench with its three new crucibles and its pots and jars of base elements and catalysts. Showed him his tiny store of remaining azafris, salvaged against all hope. No matter what it cost him, or the risks involved, he’d have to procure more. In the small, wax-sealed glass vial beside it there was drab brown susquinel, his last, best chance of success.