Now that the summons had arrived, he knew better than to put it off for long. Pawing glumly through the new clothes in his wardrobe, he chose his least fancy togs, a sober gray coat and plain black breeches. He left off his wizard stoles as well. Abelard might recognize the insignia. He wouldn’t want her to think he was getting above himself. Yet.

He’d never had six choices of garments to pick from before.

Han stared into the looking glass over the washstand, combing down his hair with his fingers, wishing he didn’t look so hollow-eyed. With Abelard, he’d have to make show.

Images from the celebration at Marisa Pines kept crowding into his head: Raisa weaving in and out of the firelight, head thrown back, skirts swirling around her slender legs, bracelets on her ankles and wrists, singing the words of the old songs. Clan princess—of an older line than Hanalea’s, even.

Reid Nightwalker, dressed for dancing. Circling the fire, eying Raisa like she was a deer and he a fellscat on the hunt.

His imagination took him further—to Raisa and Nightwalker under the blankets, their limbs intertwined, Raisa’s green eyes fastened on Nightwalker’s face, her hands entangled in those Demonai braids. Aaah! Han shook his head, trying to dislodge that image. Nightwalker might hope for a wedding, but, unlike Han, he wouldn’t decline a quick tumble in the meantime.

What had come over Han at Marisa Pines? What must Raisa be thinking now? Not to mention Averill and Elena.

When Han had heard that Nightwalker was to be Patriarch of Demonai Camp, he’d seen where Averill was headed—a match between Raisa and Nightwalker, a decisive triumph of clan over wizard. He’d tasted the bitter ashes of his charred hopes.

I have to keep my head, he thought. I can’t lose control like that. Not if I want to stay alive.

The thought of Raisa next door nearly drove Han to distraction. But he would not slide through the back hallways, keeping Raisa’s bed warm for Nightwalker.

Kendall House stood within the castle close, just within the perimeter walls. It sheltered bluebloods in the outer circles of the queen’s affections, plus those that required more spacious quarters than could be had within the palace itself.

Dean Abelard’s suite was on the first floor, in a prime space that let out to the garden. A servant ushered Han into a courtyard centered by a splashing fountain. Abelard sat at a small wrought-iron table, leafing through documents, occasionally scrawling notes in the margins. Her straight chin-length steel-and-russet hair obscured her face as she leaned over her work. The dean’s robes were gone. Abelard was as finely dressed as any blueblood at court, her book-and-flame stoles overtop.