Page 55 of The Exquisite Torment of Loving Your Enemy

She hooked her fingers into the open front of his shirt. “If I fall, you’re coming with me.”

“I think”— Mordaunt’s voice was a husky whisper—“it’s already too late.”

She could not say afterwards whose fault it was that they toppled into the lake—who had slipped, who had pulled, who had pushed.

Their fall was as slow and lingering as the twilight. He laughed into her neck, they clung together, the water closed over their heads.

Drowning was a thrill.

The Hunig moon shone overa lake that was placid, save for ripples widening around two wet, gasping heads.

“You all right?” asked Mordaunt.

“L-lost a shoe,” gasped Aurienne.

“You owe me a new pocket watch,” sputtered Mordaunt.

They clambered out of the water, gasping with cold and laughter, carrying a ruined watch and a single shoe, respectively. They stumbled back to the hotel freely blaming each other for the catastrophe.

They were stared at as they crossed the lawn. Aurienne did not care. None of these people knew that something impossible was happening. An unhealable disease was being healed.

And—and whatever had just happened at the edge of the lake.

In the hotel’s foyer, polite eyebrows were raised by other guests, but the well-trained staff took Aurienne’s and Mordaunt’s appearance in their stride, and wrapped them in towels and fluffy bathrobes. The hotel’s proprietor asked if they would like to dine in the restaurant tonight; otherwise, might he suggest having dinner sent up to the suite? Aurienne said that the latter would be preferable. Mordaunt, in a fit of extravagance, and looking thoroughly indecent in his wet shirt, called for champagne to be sent up, too.

The proprietor produced Aurienne’s hat, Mordaunt’s cane, and their gloves, which had been found at the viewing platform, and asked if they were theirs. He returned the things with patient amiability, as though Aurienne and Mordaunt were only the fifteenth pair of idiots who had fallen into the lake today, and not highly trained members of the most elite Orders in the Tiendoms. Aurienne kept her right fist closed and Mordaunt did the same with his left.

They entered their suite and unpacked their things. Aurienne insisted that Mordaunt shower first, as her hair required attention and she would be slow. Mordaunt looked doubtful that her hair would take more time than his, but nevertheless agreed. A white-gloved flurry of waiters descended upon the rooms while he showered. The chaise longue on the balcony was whisked away and replaced by a table, laid with a crisp white cloth and bracketed by two chairs. Candles were lit and set to float in a water-filled centrepiece. A champagne bottle rattled in an ice bucket.

When it was Aurienne’s turn to shower, she made liberal use of Mordaunt’s hair products, which looked expensive. Afterwards, she wiped steam from the bathroom mirror, detangled her hair with her fingers, and swept the mass over her shoulder to dry in some semblance of order. Given the late hour and the privacy of their dining arrangements, she decided to forgo decorum and put on her nightdress instead of a new set of clothes.

“I’m having dinner in my sleeping things,” she declared through the bathroom door.

“You are chaos incarnate,” came Mordaunt’s answer.

Aurienne laughed into a towel, pleased he couldn’t see her. He had made her laugh too much today. It would start going to his head.

She sobered up in front of the mirror before exiting the bathroom. There was little she could do about the brightness of amusement in her eyes, but she could, at the very least, control her mouth.

(Could she really? She had just used it to kiss a Fyren. One couldn’t be certain.)

Mordaunt reclined in an armchair while the waiters bustled about with the service trolley and glassware.

The look he gave her, from her bare feet to her bare shoulders, was appreciative, slow—a savouring. “And in walked Fairhrim, dressed in starlight.”

Aurienne glanced down at her nightdress—a grey satin chemise she had thought quite unremarkable.

“Shimmering,” continued Mordaunt. “Frost-fettered. Crowned with an anarchy of curls.”

He turned to the waiters and said, informatively, “This is my wife.”

“Yes, sir,” said the waiters.

“Mywife.”

“Indeed, sir,” said the waiters.

Aurienne whispered, “Stop that, you ridiculous man.”