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November 7 - November 11, 2025
“She’s a Haelan. She’d sooner walk into the Thames than help you. Perhaps we can equip you with a plan B. And a plan C.” “B for Blackmail, C for Coercion?” “Amusing, sir,” said Mrs. Parson, though she did not look amused.
“Right,” said Osric. “Where’s my cloak? I’m off to bribe. And if Fairhrim refuses, I shall proceed with kidnap.” “A classic, sir.”
“Ask them not to damage him too much,” said Xanthe, eyeing Osric as though he were a slab of meat. “We could use another corpse in the anatomy lab. We’re running low on adult males.” “I will,” said Fairhrim. “At least he’ll be of some use to the world.”
“That’s a Lovelace engine,” said Osric, recognising the newfangled thingy. “Well done.” “I do pride myself on not being a complete idiot.” “Do you?” Fairhrim sounded genuinely surprised. Osric fantasised about throttling her for the second time in so many minutes.
“Hello, Onion Boy,” said the axolotl. “Nice tutu.” “It’s a kilt,” said Osric.
“That was Xanthe’s deofol, I assume?” asked Osric. “Looks as moth-eaten as she is.” “Moth-eaten?” repeated Fairhrim. “How dare you? Xanthe is over two hundred years old—” “How? Did she forget to die?” “—and you aren’t in any shape to insult anyone’s physique, I can assure you.” “Excuse me?”
“Why isn’t there a road? Has anyone been here since the fall of Byzantium? This is gooier than Woden’s eye socket.”
More whinging than Aurienne had expected from a Fyren. Weren’t they meant to be rugged killers? This specimen had the fortitude of wet quiche.
“You ate the yoghurt?” “After he was dead, yes. He’d hardly touched it. What? What’s the matter? Have you mistaken me for someone respectable?” “Have you any sense of honour whatsoever?” “No,” said Mordaunt. “Anyway, I came here for a healing, not an assessment of my morals. Can we get on with it?”
Aurienne dropped her stick into his hands and declared that she was leaving. Mordaunt asked what he was meant to do with this stupid hook, other than strangle her with it. Aurienne said he could use it to hang himself if he wished.
“Not that I needed further confirmation that you’re an idiot, but that was another data point.” “I beg your pardon,” said Osric, with rather less of the beg and more of the intent to decapitate.
“Why’s he so slouchy?” came another raspy voice, from somewhere behind them. “Posture like a damp croissant.”
I CAN'T BREATHE
“D’you think a ‘cure for all evil’ includes seith rot?” asked Osric. Fairhrim looked up from where she knelt. “If this treatment was a cure for evil, it would be fatal to you.” “Oi.”
“Sometimes I’m not certain what the difference is between diplomat and doormat. Three or four letters, but much the same thing.
Mordaunt was the lowest form of life, but even the most inutile protozoa was occasionally useful, and so, too, was the Fyren.
“You’re far more polite when you need something,” said Aurienne. “I know,” said the deofol, with more tooth baring. “I’m manipulative like that.”
Aurienne gave the Fyren a long look. He certainly giggled a lot about anuses for a thing that had crawled out of one. “Have you finished?” asked Aurienne. “Yes.”
“And? You threatened to kidnap me.” “Exactly: only I can do that. You can’t tell me this lot will be a huge loss to the world.”
Mordaunt ushered Aurienne back to the waystone. “Clutch your pearls over here.”
“You remember Mordaunt, of course,” said Aurienne to Cíele. “As one remembers a particularly distinctive haemorrhoid,” said Cíele. Aurienne did not laugh, though she wished to. “I told you to keep things civil.” “I have kept things civil,” said Cíele. “I haven’t even drawn blood.” “You have absolutely drawn blood,” said Mordaunt. “He’s only a little genet,” said Aurienne. “It was an accident.” Mordaunt called Cíele a weasel-faced, pugnacious little squit. Cíele expressed amazement that the haemorrhoid could string together so many words. “You’ve got to endure him for the foreseeable future,”
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Osric stood too long in that silver sea, holding her hand up as though he were about to kiss it. It occurred to him, madly, that he could pull Fairhrim in and crush her to him.
He hated that he had come to the waystone whole but left it having lost a piece of himself in two star-brilliant eyes.
He brought it to his lips. Fairhrim was startled, for once, into a gasp. Osric pressed a gallant kiss into the back of her hand. He should have stopped there, but, like a besotted fool, he kissed smaller, revering ones across her knuckles.
“Really?” “What?” “We’re dancing and you’re interrogating me about urine?” “It’s important,” said Aurienne.
it was the sorrow of a thing ending before it could begin; it was a new circle of torment; it was a delicious wound.
It hadn’t been love at first sight, but at last sight—gods, at last sight—
