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July 8 - July 12, 2025
“Vaguely,” said Osric. “I don’t keep up with street urchins and their diseases.” “This particular disease may offer scope for you to strong-arm a Haelan into healing you,” said Mrs. Parson. “Bless the pestilent children, then,” said Osric.
Mrs. Parson nodded. “A bit of skulduggery wouldn’t go amiss.” “One of my specialties, as it happens.” “Quite.” “Right,” said Osric. “Where’s my cloak? I’m off to bribe. And if Fairhrim refuses, I shall proceed with kidnap.” “A classic, sir.”
He tilted his head so that his cheekbone caught the light. His cleft chin clefted majestically.
It was hard, being perfect in an imperfect world, but Aurienne managed. If she had a flaw, it was that she was the Best, and she knew she was the Best. Some called it arrogance. She called it competence untainted by performative humility.
“It’s perfectly clean,” said Mordaunt. “There hasn’t been a cow here in months—present company excepted.”
Aurienne glanced at Mordaunt to see how he was taking this turn of affairs. She caught a twist of amusement across his scarred lips before he disappeared behind his own curtain. So he thought this was funny, did he? He was having a grand time, was he? That was fine. She would soon be putting a damper on his mood with another failed healing. Let the Fyren enjoy himself while he could; he was a dead man walking.
fucked up
Mordaunt covered the ears of the terrier and told it, “Don’t listen to her.” He turned to Aurienne. “What’s wrong with you? They are expensive, anyway; have you any idea what it costs to bring the vet in for eight dogs?”
He's Redeemed
Aurienne noted in passing that he had more cleavage than she did.
XD
“This isn’t the time for your jokes,” said Fairhrim, over her shoulder. “Let’s focus on the assignment.” “I am the assignment.”
Osric swept a hand through his hair. She ignored him. He flexed his abs. No reaction. He bit his lip. Disregarded. He made a deep guttural sound when she wiped cold hlutoform against him. She told him to act like a grown man. She was the Worst.
He would be moderate about it. He wouldn’t power trip. He power tripped immediately.
He might have carried on kissing her to her wrist, upon her forearm, past her shoulder, up her neck. He very well could have. He, feeling her cool skin under his warm mouth, quite wanted to. In moments like this, one wished to worship a little. Her wide, shocked eyes reminded him that her hand wasn’t, and would never be, his to kiss.
On her face, a smile dawned, but did not break.
“Don’t look so grim. It’s the monster you need tonight, not the man.”
His head, Aurienne noted generously, was shaped like a suppository.
“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 did not want Fairhrim to be beautiful. He was susceptible to beauty. He was an Appreciator of beautiful things. He wanted to acquire them. He wanted them to be his. Now, as Fairhrim neared, he fought a momentary panic that his beauty-loving heart would want Fairhrim in any way, that her loveliness tonight would trigger some latent kleptomaniac urge.
Aurienne sought Mordaunt’s gaze to see how much longer he wished to keep up the pretence of the dance, but his eyes were on their joined hands. Their star-crossed tācn pressed against each other’s. Their Orders were in their veins, as inescapable as their own blood. He held his arm overhead; she spun out and spun back in; pale skirts clung to black trousers. What was between them? Once it had been a theatre of war; now it was a no-man’s-land. They had grown entangled in each other through reciprocities. Healing and killing, killing and healing.
While it lasted, the kiss was eternal. And it was too much and too little, and it was unhallowed, and it was sacrosanct.
