He didn’t think it best at all. Formality wouldn’t break through the walls Rosa had erected, though perhaps logic might. “What do you think to achieve at this hour that cannot wait until morning? Even with their mistress dead, the Knights Essamere will endure until dawn . . . and I need my friend’s help.”

She snorted, but ice thawed from her expression. “You always were soft, Malachi.”

He grinned, glad to glimpse a little of the old Rosa. “Please?”

She sighed and sank into a chair. “Very well. But not in here. I’ve spent the afternoon cooped up in the chapterhouse. I need to feel the wind on my cheeks.”

Malachi crossed to the dresser, poured a generous measure of brandy and passed the glass to Rosa. “To Kaleo Tassandra. May Lumestra light her path.”

Glasses tilted in salute, but neither of his companions echoed the toast – though Malachi suspected for different reasons.

Abandoning the attempt at ritual, he led the way out onto the terrace garden. Josiri and Rosa took up positions to either side, neither of them terribly close to him, but noticeably more distant from one another. Firestone lanterns shone through the trees, betraying the positions of patrolling hearthguard. But for all the activity in the grounds, the night remained quiet enough that he heard the rush of the river on the boundary between his gardens and the overgrown wilderness of Strazyn Abbey.

“I’ve never known the Parliament of Crows to be so bold,” he said.

Rosa stared into her glass. “I never truly believed the vranakin existed before they murdered Kas. Viktor has made them bold.”

“Events have made them bold,” Malachi corrected. “The Council has never been more divided.”

“And whose fault is that?” She didn’t address Josiri by name, nor even look at him, but her meaning was obvious. “You invited this division, Malachi. You and Viktor, and your schemes to pardon the south-wealders. But I suppose that was always part of his plan.”

“You mistake the symptom for the disease.” Josiri spoke flatly, but taut cheeks and eyes betrayed a waning temper. “I’ve spent the better part of a day in council. I found only a catalogue of sneers and petty complaint masquerading as governance.”

“Because of that division,” snapped Rosa. “Weakness is like rot. Once it settles in the bones, it spreads.”

Malachi sighed. “You sound like Ebigail.”

“She talks a lot of sense. More than you credit. She was right about Viktor, wasn’t she?”

She spat the words, but Malachi heard a crackle of self-loathing beneath the rage. He’d hoped the worst anger and grief behind her. He now realised he’d been wrong to do so. Unable to avenge Kas, she’d found a new target for her ire. Found one, or been guided by an old and canny hand. A callous strategy, even by Ebigail’s standards, and one that preyed on Rosa’s first love: duty.