There were countless answers she could give, theological and scientific alike. Wren, however, knew that magic was little but a genetic anomaly. Fewer than 10 percent of the global population possessed it. But she was in no mood to debate or play games. Besides, she knew the answer, as plainly as she knew the answer to why Isabel hated her. It was the kind that would never satisfy or heal. Knowing did not bring understanding, and it would never bring his father back.

He had no magic because nature had coldly decreed it. No more, no less.

“You already know the answer, my lord. A common trait of Cernosian people is the suppression of genes that produce usable magic. It’s inert within you, like an engine with no fuel. It always will be.”

“Come now. That’s a politician’s answer if I’ve ever heard one.”

“What do you want, Lowry?” Wren growled.

“Your professional opinion.” He rose from his chair, crossing his arms behind his back and turning to the window. Frost bloomed like mold across the glass, and beyond, a row of dripping icicles hung like incisors. “With science, is there hope for us to compete with the likes of you?”

Horrible understanding began to dawn on her. More than anything, she wanted to say no. No, no, no. Most mages possessed broad-reaching abilities: the ability to change their bone density, the ability to thicken the collagen in their body, or to affect the regeneration and death of cells. Without an innate ability to manipulate the energetics of the body, there was no means to manipulate cells, the scientific explanation for what they called magic. Unless Lowry intended to replace every bone, every tendon, every cell in his body, it was impossible.

“It’s something you’re born with. It’s not something you can build like one of your machines.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

Was it overuse or anger or fear making her hands tremble? She didn’t want to answer. She didn’t want to consider the ethical and ontological implications of such a thing. “Theoretically? Maybe.”

“Maybe?” When he turned toward her, the firelight peeled back his face. For a moment, she saw him as he was in that strange, soldierly portrait. His eyes looked black and depthless and hungry. “Well, thank you for indulging my fancy.”

“The ball is tomorrow,” she said lowly. “I am no fool. You don’t plan to reward me for healing him.”

“While you’ve disobeyed me, I do plan to present you as my liaison, exactly as I promised. I’ve even secured the queen’s support of your new position.”

Wren’s breath hitched. No, that couldn’t be true. He was only manipulating her again. The queen would never reinstate her—not for anything. “You’re lying.”