Page 83 of The Exquisite Torment of Loving Your Enemy

“Happy?”

“He wants to do things for you, apparently.”

“Do things?”

“Things that matter.” A shrug rippled through the deofol, or it might have been a shudder.

Aurienne, intrigued, asked, “Is he at Rosefell?”

“No. The waystone is called Brackenbury.”

“Tell him I’m on the way.”

The wolf vanished in a dissatisfied puff of smoke.

Aurienne, who had already changed into her sleeping things, stood at her wardrobe with her hands on her hips, unsure whether to wear her Haelan garb or something else in response to this enigmatic invitation. What was this meeting, exactly? Was it to do with Mordaunt’s condition? His deofol would’ve said something, if so.

Aurienne dared not think it could be some sort of romantic rendezvous. And yet the notion, once considered, began to take hold, and make a bit of sense—the lateness of the hour, the mystery, theit’s to make you happy.

Her collection of skulls, lined up on a shelf with the animal’s Latin name on a plaque, stared at her. In the dark, they all looked like hellhounds, observing with fathomless eyes.

Aurienne held one of her Haelan dresses to her chest. Then a dark green floor-length one. Then one in tender pink. Should she go with the Haelan whites? Keep up the veneer of professionalism?

Counsel came in the form of Cath and Élodie, knocking upon the door. Cath was a trauma specialist, Élodie a virologist; both knew of the existence of Mordaunt, but only as one of Aurienne’s Occasional Men—not that he was, gods help her, a Fyren.

Aurienne opened the door and found herself newly in possession of a pineapple. Cath had been given an enormous fruit basket by a grateful family and was distributing the contents to Swanstone’s denizens.

“Er—thank you,” said Aurienne.

Élodie spotted the silken mess on Aurienne’s bed. “Dresses,” she gasped.

“Are you going out?” asked Cath.

Aurienne’s mumbled nonanswer resulted in Cath and Élodie barging in to opine on the dresses.

Acts of Warranted Brutality was perched on the windowsill. She hissed fiercely at the intruders.

“Behave yourself,” said Aurienne.

The cat hissed at Aurienne, too.

“Please,” said Aurienne.

The cat gave her a look full of judgement, then laid herself with great finality on Aurienne’s most delicate orchid.

“Are you meeting Tit Wank Man?” asked Élodie.

“Yes,” said Aurienne. “Is the pink too much?”

“No such thing as too much,” said Élodie as she and Cath riffled through the options.

“The pink,” concluded Cath. “Torture him a bit.”

“I do like to see him suffer,” said Aurienne.

She slipped on the soft pink dress. Her bun gave way to a romantic French side braid, courtesy of Élodie.

She dabbed on a bit of lip rouge.