Page 149 of The Exquisite Torment of Loving Your Enemy

Osric pulled his signet ring off and dropped it in front of the deofol. It landed with aclunkon the desk. “She returned this to me. She has made her feelings known.”

The genet fixed his red gaze on the ring. “She was doing what she thought was the right thing for both you and her. The sane thing.”

“Shouldn’t you be glad it’s over? You detest me.”

“Shedoesn’t detest you, which matters more,” said the deofol. “I don’t think it’s time for this to be over yet. That’s why I came.”

“She didn’t send you?”

“No. I’m here of my own volition.”

Osric raised an eyebrow. A deofol rarely acted without the knowledge of its master. “Why?”

“I know where she’ll be at the next full moon,” said the deofol.

“Why would that matter to me?”

“You can choose to go or not go,” said the deofol. “She’ll be at the Fairy Glen in Fortriu. Nearest pub is the Slumbering Fern. She’ll be there at dusk.”

“What for?”

“A healing.”

Osric irritated himself by being immediately concerned. “Is she sick?”

“Something like it,” said the deofol. “I don’t expect an answer from you.”

“Good. You’re not getting one.”

Normally such a reply would merit a biting retort from the deofol, but he merely said, “I hope you go.”

“Why?”

“She’s so unhappy,” said the deofol.

“I’m not sure I’m the right person to help her with that, Hellrat.”

“You are, or I wouldn’t have come.” The deofol faded away. As it disappeared, it said, “My name is Cíele.”

Osric stared at the spot where it had sat. A deofol’s name was a private thing, shared only with one’s nearest and dearest. It was like learning the name of a piece of someone’s soul. And Fairhrim’s deofol had just given Osric his.

And she was going to be out at the next full moon? For healing? What ailed her? Was it serious? Why wouldn’t her competent crew at Swanstone assist?

He didn’t owe her anything.

She had thrown herself between him and a Dreor’s scythe.

“I’ve got thinking to do,” sighed Osric.

“Must you do it out loud, at inconvenient times?” came the voice of the critique cricket. “I’m trying to sleep.”

“Why does Fairhrim’s deofol want her to see me?” asked Osric. “Why isn’t he making this easy?”

“It’s clear that she’s suffering, too,” said the cricket.

“I’m trying to reconstruct the thresholds,” said Osric. “The lines. The divisions. So that we can both move on. There’s no point in anything else.”

“Why?” asked the cricket.