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mistakes while playing cards are not so great.”
    “Like a youngster gambling away all his wages,” Daemon said.
    “Exactly.”
    Feeling awkward, Daemon looked away. “I’ve owned the Hall for a year now. Should I have known about this?”
    Beale laid the flute in its case. “Taking care of the interests of the SaDiablo family is not a small task, Prince. Neither is taking care of Dhemlan. And you’ve also had the equally demanding—and more important—task of helping the Lady regain her health. I don’t think last Winsol you were able to think much beyond those things.”
    Astute assessment , Daemon thought, nodding.
    “This year the Lady is well and you’ve settled into the routine of ruling Dhemlan, so your own view of the world can now widen.”
    He started to agree. Then he noticed a look in Beale’s eyes and rocked back on his heels to reassess all the information he’d been given during this little chat.
    “So what duties am I ready to assume?” he asked warily.
    Beale smiled. “The servants’ Winsol party is held on the first evening of Winsol. There is dancing later, but the evening begins with a short musical program. The High Lord and the Lady would join us for that part of the evening before going on to their own engagement. And they would sing one of the traditional Dhemlan songs for Winsol, a lovely one about the warmth of family on the darkest night. Last year, the High Lord came down and sang it for us.”
    “Is the Lady coming down this year to sing it for you?” Daemon asked.
    “Yes, she’s already said she would.”
    He nodded. His singing voice wouldn’t hold up to professional standards, but he could carry a tune and read music, so he did well enough for at-home entertainment. “Do you have the music?”
    “I do.” Beale opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out a small stack of sheet music. “The top one is the Dhemlan song. The next one is a song the Lady and the High Lord used to sing for guests. It is in the Old Tongue.”
    Daemon groaned. The Old Tongue was a liquid kind of language, beautiful to hear and damned difficult to learn.
    “Perhaps if you learned the music, you could accompany one of them?” Beale suggested.
    “That would be better.” Much better. “Thanks for the music.” Daemon opened the door, ready to retreat.
    “You’re quite welcome, Prince.”
    Having a suspicious feeling that his list of things to do before Winsol had lengthened more than he thought, Daemon hurried toward his study—and stopped short when he saw Lord Marcus, his man of business, handing a coat and hat to Holt, the footman on duty in the great hall.
    “Did we have an appointment?” Daemon asked.
    “Not exactly,” Marcus said. “I came in the hopes you could spare an hour or two for me to review some things.”
    An hour or two. Mother Night.
    “Of course,” Daemon said. “Holt? Please ask Mrs. Beale for a tray of coffee.”
    “There’s some fresh baking,” Holt said. “I’ll ask if she’ll add a bit to the tray.”
    “Thank you.” He’d been lured to that part of the Hall because he’d passed a stairway and caught some delicious scents rising up from the kitchen. But when he got to the doorway and heard Mrs. Beale snarl about “them who try to snitch the treats before the pans were cool,” he decided he liked his balls better than nutcakes. Realizing he needed some excuse if his presence near the kitchen was discovered, he had ended up in the butler’s pantry—and now had his musical assignment for the festivities.
    Which made him wonder if the scents coming up from the kitchen had been a Craft-enhanced lure. And damn it, he’d swallowed the bait without getting a taste of anything else.
    “Have you come to add to my list of things to do?” Daemon asked as he led Marcus into his study and settled into one of the chairs on the informal side of the room.
    “Afraid so.” Marcus set a bulging leather case near his feet. “I was informed, discreetly, by both