Oliver scarcely heard those words, so fully had his mind caught on the ones he’d spat before. Would Casek Wearne stoop so low as to play tricks on Enyon?

Undoubtedly.

But would he really leverage the tragedy of one of his former students’ deaths to do it?

Oliver spun away from the wall, not sure even he could believe that. Casek Wearne was a blighter, without question, but he genuinely cared about his students. This stupid rivalry wasn’t stronger than that, was it?

He sincerely hoped not. But he didn’t know anymore where the Wearnes drew their lines.

When next he refocused, he saw his own house before him, though he’d intended to pay one more visit before going home. Apparently his feet had obeyed his stomach instead of his mind, and since he smelled something delicious wafting from the kitchen door, he followed its trail inside.

Mrs. Dawe met him with a tray and a smile. “There you are. In the drawing room with you, sir. Your grandmother and the lady are entertaining each other, though I’m not certain who’s most amused by whom.”

“The lady?” But even as he fell in behind her, he knew. It had been Mabena he’d caught a glimpse of before he went into the vicarage—he hadn’t been sure. And she must have brought Lady Elizabeth with her.

But how had she ended up in his drawing room?

Mrs. Dawe chuckled. “While I was baking this morning, Mrs. Tremayne decided to take a turn through the Abbey Gardens and happened upon her. Lady Elizabeth was good enough to bring her home.”

“Ah.” He should probably be concerned that Mamm-wynn had slipped out again without telling anyone where she was going. But the banding around his chest didn’t feel like worry for his grandmother. It felt suspiciously more like anxiety over what Lady Elizabeth Sinclair might think of her.

Casek Wearne’s fault, no doubt. Last week’s “your mad old grandmother” still irritated Oliver whenever the memory surfaced, and given that he’d just seen his snarling face . . .

Even before he reached the drawing room, he could hear them. Two voices, laughing together, one as familiar as the wind through the Cornish palms, the other as novel as the long-headed poppy that bloomed in the garden for the first time that spring. A bit of the tension eased.

And it eased more when he stepped into the room and saw them perched on the sofa together, heads nearly touching as they leaned over something in their laps. A book of some sort. Hopefully a notebook, given that Mamm-wynn was writing something on it with a pencil. Lady Elizabeth watched her intently, her lips curved into an echo of her laughter.

His breath whispered out. He’d seen her feigning polite interest last week with Mrs. Pepper. This was something different. This seemed to be genuine pleasure with Mamm-wynn’s company.