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“Death is a normal part of life,” said Mordaunt. “You can’t play god and accelerate it,” said Aurienne. “Tss. You play god and slow it down; how’s that different?” “Because it’s for Good.” “They aren’t Good.”
“Take a waystone to the Moist Oyster. Follow the signs for the clinic for Pthirus pubis infestations.”
Gods, she could be dry. Osric’s lips chapped on the spot.
His scars cicatrised sexily, his jaw chiselled heroically, his pecs popped manfully—not for Fairhrim, but because that was their usual state. He’d like to see her try to ignore this catalogue of attractions, however.
She instructed him to dress and exited the room, and thus deprived herself of further viewings of his superb masculinity, which was her loss.
He would be moderate about it. He wouldn’t power trip. He power tripped immediately.
“Go back to your House of Pestilence,” called Osric, “though I’m not sure which is the greater Pestilence, you or the House.” “Go back to your derelict country pile and rot there.” They parted with the usual levels of esteem and affection.
He spent too much time that afternoon continuing their discussion in his head, resulting in an imaginary argument in which he featured prominently with sharp and witty rebuttals. He considered sending his deofol to Fairhrim with a script, so that she knew what he was capable of.
One-Tooth gazed lovingly at the woman in red and updated Osric on her filmography (Death by a Thousand Sluts and Big Tits 4)
her breasts were insured, and also that they had names (from left to right, Thoughts and Prayers).
“How can you walk in those ridiculous boots?” “How can you see in those ridiculous spectacles?” “They’re for privacy.” “You look like a bee.”
Cerys, bolstered by Thoughts and Prayers, plunged through the brawl towards them to keep abreast of the situation.
“Speaking of castles,” said Fairhrim, shuffling a bit closer to Choking Hazard, “did you hear that someone attacked Swanstone?” (Subtle, Fairhrim. Very subtle.)
himself, gone still, as he decided where to amputate Choking Hazard’s arm because he had touched his Haelan.
“That man is a vaginal desiccant.”
You can dig up your dead mum and shag her bones.”
“What did you do?” gasped Aurienne. “He fell,” said Mordaunt. “He fell?” “Yes. On the fork.” “He fell on the fork? Twenty times?” “Yes. Due to…fear.” “What was he afraid of?” “The fork.”
“You, on the other hand, have got the survival instincts of a crumpet.”
“Might we,” asked Aurienne, “go anywhere without subtracting from the population?” “Would you prefer,” asked Mordaunt, “that we add to it?”
“Haelan Fairhrim would like to wash up; she had an unfortunate encounter with a lecherous shitbag.” “What?” gasped Mrs. Parson. “I took care of him,” said Mordaunt. “Couldn’t have him harassing our Haelan.” “I hope you made him suffer, sir,” said Mrs. Parson. “I did.” “Is he dead, sir?” “Yes.” “Send his mother a toe, sir.” “Good idea.” Anyway, reflected Aurienne, it was nice of Mrs. Parson to confirm so early in their acquaintance that she, too, was unhinged.
“You named the dog Rigor Mortis?” asked Aurienne, as Rigor Mortis ignored the instruction. “They’re named for what was happening when I found them,” said Mordaunt. He pointed at dogs as he listed their names. “Arson. Perjury. Forgery. Outraging Public Decency. High Treason. The terrier is Diverse Felonies. The whippet is Crème Brûlée.” “The crème brûlée was a crime?” “It was the murder weapon.”
Mordaunt, his eyes riveted to the hem of her dress, said, “A foot. An ankle. Put it away. You’ll stir my loins.”
Also in the bowl flopped a large, slightly flaccid banana. Aurienne did not ask if the banana, too, was a metaphor. She left the tea, the pomegranates, and the flanana untouched.
“There is nothing right about fork-induced thoracic trauma resulting in death.” A glove was waved Aurienne’s way. “You make everything so unpoetic.” “I’m sorry. Would you like me to say it again, in iambic pentameter?” “Yes.” Aurienne didn’t, because she couldn’t remember what iambic pentameter was.
“You’re incorrect.” “You’re naive.”
“Right. I suppose you’re just a rat, then. A plain rat.” “Thank you.” Mordaunt, placated, settled back into his armchair.
When he noticed the Fyren, Cíele said, “Ew.” “You remember Mordaunt, of course,” said Aurienne to Cíele. “As one remembers a particularly distinctive haemorrhoid,” said Cíele.
Mordaunt called Cíele a weasel-faced, pugnacious little squit. Cíele expressed amazement that the haemorrhoid could string together so many words.
“I’m just a Point of Leverage, am I?” “I’m just a Means to an End, aren’t I?”
“I’d rather you hate me than not think of me at all.”
The gap must remain. The threshold must not be crossed. That was what they were doomed to: standing upon a threshold. On the verge and only ever on the verge. An almost. He was what he was; she was what she was. She would never cross over.
gone. He hated that he had come to the waystone whole but left it having lost a piece of himself in two star-brilliant eyes.
Osric received directions to a clinic in the village of Mortehoe, in Dumnonia. The signs for the clinic informed him that he was suffering from torn nipples. Fairhrim thought she was funny.
“Nice girl, this Haelan,” said Leofric in a whisper. “Bit uptight, though. She could do a Kegel and snap your cock off. But she’s warmed up to me. They all do, eventually. Charmed her with my wits and tits. She’s a looker.”
“Put that down,” said Fairhrim, in tones that would galvanise a mollusc into action.
“What the fuck is that stuff?” asked Leofric. “Hlutoform,” said Fairhrim. “It’s used all over the Tīendoms,” said Osric, knowledgeably. “Your mum’s used all over the Tīendoms,” said Leofric.
The deofol’s pointy head turned towards Osric and Leofric. “I see we’ve gathered all the contraception in one place.” Fairhrim turned her cold gaze towards them, too. “I do like to be organised.”
(She said his name like it was a swear word and he rather liked it.)
I am, nevertheless, choosing to put my trust in you.” “Don’t. I don’t know where it’s been.”
“How can you be so mean to your own patient?” “You aren’t a patient.” “You’re caring for me.” “I’m caring for you, not about you.” “Ouch.”
“A crime of passion. You’re forgiven.”
On her face, a smile dawned, but did not break.
“Good thing about my blimp-sized bollocks,” said Aurienne. “May they carry you swiftly, and may the winds be fair,” said Xanthe.
“I’ll find it no matter what crevice he’s hiding it in. I’ve plunged deep into better men for lesser prizes. And I don’t mean that in a sexy way. Although I’ve also done it in a sexy way. Did your deofol ever deliver my observation about anals?”
“You do realise,” said Wellesley, “that you’ve only got one man here.” “No,” said Aurienne, with ruefulness born of sad truth. “I’ve got a monster.”
They named the kitten Acts of Warranted Brutality.
Osric continued to feel superior to Fairhrim, and all was well in the world, except for the knife in his guts, and the fact that she might, after all, be prettier than him.
He wanted a quick word with her to inform her that he was actively in the process of dying, but they were swept into the crowd and deposited in a reception room.
All exceptionally good; he could not appreciate it fully, however, because he was dying.
He fainted face-first into the pudding.
