Page 12 of The Exquisite Torment of Loving Your Enemy

“Crisis,” said Mordaunt.

“Sybarite.”

“Malapert.”

“Furuncle.”

“Niminy-piminy.”

“That’s not a noun.”

“Neither are you.”

It was a fruitful exchange. It reminded Aurienne that Mordaunt was the most constitutionally irritating man she could possibly have been cursed with healing.

They glared at each other; aggravation simmered and spat between them. Mordaunt said, “I’ve so missed the pleasures of your company.”

He led Aurienne into crumbling, rambling Rosefell Hall through the kitchens, where he shed his cloak and cowl to reveal a wildly unnecessary—though splendidly cut—silver suit.

Aurienne was greeted by his motley pack of dogs. Rigor Mortis (Great Dane), Arson (retriever), Perjury and Forgery (border collies), Outraging Public Decency (bulldog; prolific farter), High Treason (borzoi) and Crème Brûlée (whippet) all limped to her and collapsed around her feet. Tails flumped at the floor in greeting.

Diverse Felonies, an arthritic terrier who usually objected to Aurienne’s presence through vigorous, voiceless barks, greeted her with cheerful belligerence. Crème Brûlée, the timid one-eyed whippet, permitted himself to be stroked. Arson liberally coated her black clothes with cream fur. High Treason, possessor of a long empty vessel instead of a head, leaned into her from behind and buckled her knees.

Mordaunt snapped out an instruction to sit, which his pensioners ignored as they smeared wet noses all over her.

Aurienne was also greeted by Mrs. Parson, Mordaunt’s steward—a sturdy, sensible woman, out of place in the household of a Fyren—and Mr. Parson, the groundskeeper, kindly and shy.

Mordaunt opened the door of the house’s sole usable sitting room. Perjury and Forgery herded Aurienne in.

The sitting room was in its usual state: it was a room of rococo exuberance in which an art gallery and an antique shop had fought. The antique shop had won; both had left debris upon every surface.

Aurienne cleared away the bric-a-brac on the coffee table—crystal bottles shaped like anemones, a terra-cotta horse—and replaced it with Grette’s pies from the Publish or Perish.

“Did you buy me dinner?” asked Mordaunt.

“Yes.”

“Romantic.”

“Economic.”

“What?”

“They were on offer, two for one,” said Aurienne. “Steak and ale or chicken and mushroom?”

Mordaunt chose the steak. They ate. Mordaunt said his pie was lovely and tender, unlike Aurienne. She said her crust was superbly flaky, just like him.

Aurienne extracted materials from her satchel. She laid a map of Glastonbury Tor—the outcrop upon which the Druids had built their stronghold of the Færwundor—on the table.

“We were meant to pool our information on the Færwundor tonight,” she said. “I brought what I could find. What have you got?”

“I’ve got a plan.”

“Show me.”

Mordaunt fished about in his pocket and pulled out a bit of paper, which he gave to Aurienne. It said:

Plan: