Page 127 of The Exquisite Torment of Loving Your Enemy

To this, Mordaunt made no response. His look, however, was long and full of misery.

Perhaps Mrs. Parson was wrong. Perhaps it was grief that began and ended love.

In a panting, furry body, the dogs barged into the room. Aurienne said farewell to them. Goodbye, Rigor Mortis; goodbye, Arson; goodbye, Perjury, Forgery, and Outraging Public Decency; goodbye, High Treason and Crème Brûlée. Goodbye, Diverse Felonies, the terrier who hated her but didn’t.

The dogs did not understand the concept of goodbye and lolled their tongues happily in response to her attention.

She left Rosefell Hall through the kitchens. Mordaunt accompanied her. Mrs. Parson stood at the door, a neat figure with her hands crossed upon her apron.

Aurienne and Mordaunt walked down the gravel drive towards the waystone for the last time. Everything was last times now; everything was sad.

“You must return the diffractor to the clinic,” said Aurienne.

“I won’t. Then you’ll have to come and scold me about it,” said Mordaunt.

The facetiousness did not reach his eyes. His gaze was the grey of a cloud promising rain.

Unwilling to part yet unable not to, they walked slowly towards the waystone.

Aurienne was heartsore, soul-sore. She cared for him, against her will and against her better judgement. She wrestled with the blasphemy of her feelings: longing for him, dreading it; wishing to kiss him, detesting herself for that desire; hating herself for her own indecision, indiscretions, idiocy.

This had nothing to do with love, she’d told herself. But she had lied. It had everything to do with love, and therein lay the terror.

To love a Hedgewitch had been foolish.

To love a Fyren would be purest folly.

It had to be goodbye.

But she felt in that moment that even if they went their separate ways, in him there would always be a bit of her now, and in her a bit of him. One couldn’t touch hearts unchanged.

They hadn’t much to say, or perhaps too much to say, and therefore did not speak.

They stood at the waystone. Silence drew up and around them, heavy with sadness.

This was it. They were parting.

“Normally they say,Don’t be a stranger,” began Aurienne, “but in this case—”

“I know this was all nothing but an obligation to you,” said Mordaunt.

“It was a transaction,” said Aurienne.

“We oughtn’t see more of each other.”

“That would be the wise thing.”

“I am desperately unwise.” There was a pause. Mordaunt spoke again with difficulty. “I don’t want you to remove your seith markers because—because I want a piece of you left in me.”

“Why?”

“To remember.”

“You’re more to me than you should be, but you also can’t be more to me.”

There was a sorrow-laden silence.

“You should be happy,” said Aurienne. “We achieved something impossible and beautiful. You’re healed. We did it. You’re going to live.”