Page 130 of The Exquisite Torment of Loving Your Enemy

Cinder folded her ears back in impatience. “So go and have the affair.”

Mrs. Parson nodded. Both she and Cinder regarded Osric as though waiting for him to leap out of his chair and seduce the nearest available housewife.

“He won’t,” said Mrs. Parson to Cinder.

“I know,” said Cinder.

“There is only the Fair Tormentor,” came the voice of the critique cricket. “There is no one else in his heart.”

“Ireallydon’t need you here, too,” said Osric.

“You’re being stubborn,” said Mrs. Parson.

“An idiot,” said Cinder.

“Thick as pig shit,” said the cricket.

“Fairhrim and I had a deal, and we both fulfilled its terms,” said Osric. “We will never cross paths again. I’m a Fyren and she’s a Haelan, in case you’ve forgotten.”

“Didn’t you have a plan to steal the money back after the deal was over?” asked Mrs. Parson.

“I did.”

“I note the past tense,” said the cricket.

Osric glared at his inquisition committee. “I don’t want to steal the money back anymore. It wouldn’t be—it wouldn’t be right.”

“Since when has that bothered you?” asked Cinder.

“What changed?” asked Mrs. Parson.

“Me.” Osric put his face in his hands.

“I believe,” said the cricket, “that Honour has returned to this house.”

Life went on ruthlessly, withno respect for men suffering Agonies.

Osric’s tacn buzzed with seith of every description except the cool, steady one he wished to feel. Tristane’s and Sacramore’s deofols came through often. Instability roiled in the southernmost Tiendoms, and the Fyren Order had never been so busy. In the same week, Osric took a job in Dumnonia on behalf of Wessex, in Wessex on behalf of Dumnonia, and then for Kent back in Wessex.

His seith flowed sure and strong, with no further fluctuations. He thought of Aurienne every time he used his tacn.

He watched the moon wax through September. It sickened him that it would reach fullness and that he wouldn’t have an excuse to meet her.

One night, while collecting payment at the Dog’s Bollocks, he heard a rumour regarding Swanstone.

“How is Haelan Hot Tits?” asked Leofric.

“I don’t know and I don’t care,” said Osric. An enormous, sweaty lie.

“Sound lad,” said Leofric. “Best to be rid of connections. Things are going to happen at Swanstone.”

With a choky haste, Osric asked, “Things?”

Leofric tapped his nose.

“What things, Leofric?” asked Osric again.

“The Dreor, mate.”