Page 35 of The Exquisite Torment of Loving Your Enemy

“Yes,” said Aurienne.

“He can’t be that bad, then,” said Cath.

Aurienne produced a fixed smile, because yes, he could absolutely be That Bad. He was a bloody Fyren.

“Can Élodie and I meet him?” asked Cath.

“Absolutely not,” said Aurienne. “He’s no one important. Only one of my Occasional Men. Tea?”

“Yes, please.” Cath pushed her cup forward. “Your parents got to meet him, but we can’t?”

“Correct.”

“He’s certainly got you distracted.”

“He hasn’t.”

“You’re pouring the milk into the sugar pot.”

“Bollocks.”

Rescue came in the form of Quincey, who whisked Aurienne away to chair a committee in Haelan Whitman’s place. The committee was on clinical ethics, because why would it be on anything else, while Aurienne scampered about, illicitly putting a Fyren through an unapproved course of treatment that would get her Haelan wings pulled if anyone found out? Fate was, once again, taking the piss.

Aurienne permitted herself no further thoughts of Mordaunt thereafter, save for one legitimate concern: she was anxious to get a diffractor on him to confirm what changes had followed the healing at the Færwundor. He was equally anxious on this front and sent his deofol to Aurienne regularly, enquiring about the date for their next meeting. However, with the rollout of the Pox immunisation programme, all ofthe Haelan Order’s clinics, including the ones in remote villages where Aurienne normally met Mordaunt, were booked up.

She wasn’t able to reserve one until a chance cancellation a fortnight later, at which point both she and Mordaunt were bursting with frustration.

“I might have a place for us to meet,” said Aurienne to Mordaunt’s deofol, who had once again darkened her tacn with her presence.

She locked the door to her quarters as the deofol’s black miasma melded into a wolfish shape.

“I’m confirming whether or not they’ve got a diffractor available,” continued Aurienne. “Not every clinic has one.”

Mordaunt’s deofol, whose past interactions with Aurienne largely involved snark and teeth, behaved herself. The wolf laid herself at Aurienne’s feet like a patient, smoky rug and said, “Take your time, Haelan.”

Aurienne flipped through an enormous binder detailing clinic inventories. “Yes—we’re in luck. There’s a diffractor there. Tell Mordaunt we’re to meet tomorrow, in Grasmere. The waystone is at the Deceptive Banana. I know it’s short notice.”

“It doesn’t matter,” said the wolf. “He will be pleased to be there. Thank you, Haelan.”

Aurienne snapped the binder shut. The wolf could be so polite when she wanted to be. “We’ll meet there at noon, and if Mordaunt complains that it’s broad daylight—”

“He won’t,” said the wolf. A bow followed. “You have our gratitude.”

Instead of fading away as usual, however, the deofol lingered at Aurienne’s eye level.

Uncomfortable under the creature’s black-souled scrutiny, Aurienne asked, “Was there something else?”

“I believe you are the Fair Tormentor,” said the wolf.

“The what?”

“Only something he’s been muttering about. I think he’s fond of you.”

“Fond?” repeated Aurienne.

“Curious, isn’t it?” said the wolf.

“Has he forgotten that I walk one of the Bright Paths and that he’s got a great flaming hellhound on his hand?”