Aurienne pushed past him—admittedly not an easy exercise—and strode around the corner. There she found Scrope, studded with at least two dozen stab wounds. Not quite dead, but not quite alive, either. “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.” Aurienne tore off her glove to heal the dying man. “You’re utterly unhinged.” “I’m perfectly hinged,” said Mordaunt. “You, on the other hand, have got the survival instincts of a crumpet.” “I beg your pardon?”
