Malachi spun around. There, in the shadow cast by the swaying boughs of the silver birch, the hazy outline of an elder cousin. There was no one else in sight. Fear gave way to anger, and he bore down on the vranakin.

“This was not the agreement,” he hissed. “My home is off limits.”

Green eyes gleamed beneath the grey hood. “The Parliament of Crows wish you to accept the position of First Councillor.”

Which was precisely why Malachi had refused. “They’ll survive their disappointment.”

“True.” The elder cousin crossed to the balustrade, her form becoming ever more indistinct in the sunlight. “Disappointment passes. Much like life.”

Bright laughter rang out across the grounds below as Constans ran past, a dark blur against the grass. Ada ran behind. The tutor had her skirts gathered in one hand and the other extended in fruitless beckoning.

“My family, like my home, is off limits,” Malachi bit out. “I promised a sympathetic ear on the Council and an easing of patrols around Dregmeet. That’s all.”

“Indeed. And a First Councillor’s ear is worth far more, wouldn’t you agree? A bargain was struck. Straying from its terms will have . . . consequences.” The elder cousin reached up and snapped a branch from the tree. “By all means, think on the matter. Consider your priorities.”

“It can’t be done. Hadon will never support me.”

“Then perhaps we should help you with that.”

Malachi stared down at his feet. He’d always known he’d regret his bargain with the Crowmarket, but for that regret to blossom in less than a day . . .

“Go! Leave me in peace!”

He glanced up to find himself more alone than ever.

The gloom of the foundry matched Viktor’s mood to perfection. Better reflection in welcoming darkness than out in the glare of sunlight. Better Elzar’s company than Josiri’s, or even Malachi’s at that moment. Elzar placed no expectation on him.

“Life used to be simple,” he said. “Now the journey grows harder with every step.”

“Life’s never simple.” Elzar perched on his desk and folded his arms. “Just looks that way when you glance behind. In five years you’ll stare back at this moment and curse your younger self’s easy life.”

Viktor turned from the soot-smeared window and took a deep breath. Even the air wasn’t right. Gone was the thick, suffocating rush that flooded lungs and set the skin prickling. With its furnaces cold and silent, the foundry felt like a tomb.

“Perhaps you’re right. The church conclave has given you no trouble?”

“A few suspicious glances, but the backing of the Council has dealt with the rest. The archimandrite will have a word or two to say upon his return, but . . .”

“Makrov will have his own troubles by then.” The thought alleviated a little of Viktor’s dourness. “He has them now, though he doesn’t realise.”