Page 11 of The Exquisite Torment of Loving Your Enemy

Aurienne entered the Publish or Perish, was greeted by the merry throng therein, and bought dinner. Then, under Tenet’s eye at the waystone, she pressed her tacn to the runes for the Higgledy-Piggledy, the pub nearest her parents’ house.Mind the gapflashed the waystone.

Aurienne was pulled into the waystone graticule and whizzed through ley lines from Swanstone-on-Sea to London, at which point, no longer under Warden supervision, she touched the runes for her real destination: Rosefell Hall.

3

Fate’s Continued Interference in Matters It Does Not Understand

Aurienne

When Aurienne materialised at Rosefell Hall, she clung to the waystone to wait for her stomach to turn right way up. Waystone travel always made her woozy; successive dips into the graticule made her nauseated. The stars spun too quickly overhead. The gravel drive ribboned queasily away.

A piece of darkness detached itself from the waystone. It said, “Hiya.”

Aurienne did not pierce Mordaunt’s eardrums with a scream, but he would have deserved it if she had.

He was dressed in his deepest hood and blackest cowl. Only his pale eyes were visible among the shadows, along with a few artistically placed strands of hair, silver white in the dark.

He pulled down his cowl to uncover a scar-crossed grin. Aurienne had not foreseen the tingle of gladness that possessed her at the sight. As though she had missed it. As though it mattered to her. She quelled the feeling.

Mordaunt swept towards her in an elegant bow. “My saviour hasreturned. You’ll no doubt find it impertinent of me to tell you what a delight it is to see you again.”

“I wouldn’t if I thought you were sincere,” said Aurienne. “Spare me your theatrical ardours.”

The smile gave way to a laugh. Mordaunt had cast off the softness of their rooftop talk. He was himself again: debonair, arrogant, mocking. There was, however, a new thinness to his face. Cíele was right—he looked like he’d been ill.

“Have you been sick?” asked Aurienne.

“Why?”

“Your face.”

“How dare you?”

“Answer me.”

“I’m fine,” said Mordaunt. “Quite over it, actually.”

“What happened?”

“Stomach bug. Don’t start quizzing me about diarrhoea. It’s not manners.”

“You should tell me when you’re not well,” said Aurienne. “I’m your Haelan.”

“You’re my Haelan,” repeated Mordaunt. He passed a hand along his jaw. His smile lingered but his eyes were unamused.

Then, as one seeking distraction, Mordaunt gave Aurienne’s outfit a look of assessment—this shedidfind impertinent—and asked, “What look were you going for? Lonely Adventuress? Exploratrix?”

Aurienne gave his ensemble an identical look of assessment and asked, “And you? Widow in mourning? The remains of the deceased?”

And then they were at each other again, irresistibly, a pin to a magnet.

Mordaunt, vexed, called her a Paroxysm.

She informed him, on general grounds, that he was an Adhesion.

He called her a Vortex.

“Fiasco,” said Aurienne.