Makrov’s lip trembled. He radiated unhappiness, but he was trapped by his own decision. “Governor Yanda? Under the circumstances, I think it better not to feed rumour. Proceed with discretion. We shan’t risk persecuting the innocent in order to expose the guilty.”

Yanda’s shoulders slumped a fraction of an inch. “As you wish.”

A muscle twitched in Makrov’s cheek. “Not I. The Council. Now, if you’ll excuse me, your grace, I have prayers to lead in the town. But I’ll be sure to return at noon and hear your declaration.”

“I look forward to it,” Josiri lied.

Yanda at his side, Makrov withdrew. Halfway to the great oaken door he spun on his heel, hands clasped behind his back. “And, your grace? You’ve not forgotten my instruction about your mother’s portrait? I want its ashes by sundown.”

Josiri bit back a flash of anger. Like it or not, some wounds had to be borne. “I’ll see that it’s done.”

Makrov grunted, then he and Yanda were gone. Servants swung the door closed, cutting off the sound of footsteps beyond. Anastacia’s slow, deliberate handclap echoed off the walls.

“Oh, very well played.”

Josiri clenched and unclenched his fists in frustration. Did she not see how close that had run? “Don’t mock me. I’m not in the mood.”

“Yes, your grace.” She swung her legs off the arm of the chair. Dress swishing against polished flagstones, she glided gently towards him. “Whatever you say, your grace.”

She gathered her skirts and bobbed a curtsey. All with that same impish inflection at the corner of her smile. Impish, and infectious. Enough so that Josiri found his own lips twitching in echo.

With an effort, he stifled the smile. “Antagonising Makrov didn’t help.”

Anastacia looped her hands about the back of his neck. “Of course it did. He’s stuffed full of self-importance and looking for sympathy as much as justice. I nudged him, and he sailed straight into your harbour. You can thank me later, when you’re in a more reasonable frame of mind.”

Josiri closed his eyes and lost himself in the comfort of Anastacia’s embrace – the rich, delicate scent of her. She had an answer for everything.

“You put lives at risk.”

“So did you, the moment you asked Revekah for that favour.”

He frowned. “That’s different.”

She giggled, the bright notes spilling across him like rain. Warm lips pressed to his, then withdrew. “Of course it isn’t. There’s no victory without risk. Taking the archimandrite down a rung or two is a victory worth savouring. It won’t last. He’ll seek ministration with his choir, and the serenes will smooth away his hurts . . . in one manner or another.”