Page 8 of The Exquisite Torment of Loving Your Enemy

“He said he was busy with murders,” said Cíele. “I think he’s been ill. He’s hollow about the cheeks and eyes.”

“He ought to tell me if he’s been ill,” said Aurienne.

“He suggests Tuesday, for the planning session for the Færwundor.”

Aurienne pulled out her diary. “I’m doing a demo on the Fulhame Chemiluminator that evening. What time?”

“He’s to send his deofol to confirm,” said Cíele.

“Right. Thank you for going to him, darling. I know you don’t like it.”

“Unfortunately unavoidable,” said Cíele, fading away in a dissatisfied puff of white fur.

Days whizzed by, filled withlab work (end-to-side seith fibre repair; seith hydrodissection; congenital irregularities in seith systems: surgical considerations of), shifts in the Platt’s Pox ward, mildly enraging budget meetings, and Quincey and the Administrative Faff.

By Tuesday afternoon, Aurienne had still heard nothing from Mordaunt about their meeting that night.

She paced in her office. Quincey brought her tea and a few more instances of administrative faffery.

She locked the door, preparing to summon Cíele again.

A high-pitched meow interrupted her. It was her cat.

Hercat? Not really. The cat who lived in her quarters. Or whose quarters Aurienne lived in. The black cat’s name was Acts of Warranted Brutality, and she had been given to Aurienne by Mordaunt during their infiltration of Wellesley Keep.

Acts of Warranted Brutality demanded the milky remains of Aurienne’s tea.

Aurienne poured tea onto her saucer and nudged it across the desk. “Only a little, all right? Caffeine isn’t good for you.”

The cat flattened her ears when Aurienne dared look at her. She loathed everyone, including Aurienne.

Acts of Warranted Brutality did continue to earn her name, however—she was a wicked hunter who left Aurienne daily gifts of dead spiders and rats murdered by diverse and creative means—and thus maintained her place in Aurienne’s good graces. She also provided a superb source of material for Aurienne’s collection of skulls. Aurienne didn’t mind the cat’s prickliness as long as it came with competence. (In this way, Acts of Warranted Brutality reminded her strangely of herself.)

The cat lapped at the tea while her yellow eyes fixed on Aurienne, in case Aurienne tried to do anything obscene, such as stroke her.

Then, just to make sure Aurienne knew her place, the cat volleyed the saucer off the table. It landed with a thump on the carpet.

“Brat,” said Aurienne as the cat darted away.

She was far more beloved by her deofol, Cíele, whom she summoned presently. The albino genet materialised, curled into a fuzzy white doughnut.

“Poor thing,” said Aurienne. “I didn’t mean to wake you. It’s Tuesday, and I’ve had no news from Mordaunt regarding our planning session tonight. Will you go to him again?”

Cíele made a sound of lugubrious assent. “With any luck, it’ll be the last time.”

“Why?”

“The Druids’ Threefold Death.” Cíele stretched, flipped over, andsuggested elastically: “I thought perhaps you could see to it that he gets caught.”

“Cíele,” tutted Aurienne.

“I know you won’t.” Cíele sighed. “You’ve already had one chance to let the Fyren die, and you didn’t take it.”

“You really think I should’ve?”

Cíele grew serious. He gathered his paws below him and pressed his chin gravely into his chest. “No. Not after what he did for you. I was—unfortunately—joking.”

“This is messy, isn’t it?” said Aurienne.