Page 98 of The Exquisite Torment of Loving Your Enemy

Bits of the evening came back to Osric in blurred flashes. The immense shock of seeing Fairhrim in the same room as Tristane. The way it had put him in a filthy temper, driven entirely by fear for her safety. Leofric’s idiocy. The hissed argument in the cupboard. Lady Windermere’s brains coming out of her eyes.

“Did—did Fairhrim kill Lady Windermere last night?” asked Osric.

“She did, sir.”

“I thought it was a fever dream.”

“Haelan Fairhrim is a most able woman,” said Mrs. Parson. “She saved your life.”

Mrs. Parson pressed a cup of tea into his hands. “We carried you upstairs. Haelan Fairhrim looked after you while I dosed our remaining guests with a mild amnesiac. We thought it would be best if everyone’s recollection of the evening was a bit blurry, for when Lady Windermere’s disappearance is noticed.”

“Good shout.”

Mrs. Parson remained grave. “You’re lucky Haelan Fairhrim was with you when Lady Windermere made her move.”

“I realise that.”

“I took the liberty of burning the body.”

“Putting the arson in Parson,” Osric said, nodding.

“It’s not funny. You could have died.”

“Where is Fairhrim now?”

“Taking breakfast on the terrace,” said Mrs. Parson. “She was by your side all night.”

“Has she slept?”

“No.”

“Have you?”

“No.”

“Right. I’ll shoo her off to rest. You should, too.”

Mrs. Parson made to leave, hesitated, and then turned around again. “Do you know anything about the stone Haelan Fairhrim wears around her neck?”

“The rock thing? No idea.”

“Right,” said Mrs. Parson. “A most able woman,” she repeated as she left.

Having bathed and dressed, Osricstepped onto the terrace to find a misty morning awaiting him. The air was fresh and dewy, laden with juniper and clover. Above it all lingered the scent of hours-old smoke, the final earthly remains of Lady Windermere.

Osric’s footsteps were muffled by moss upon the paving stones. Like much of Rosefell, all was sweet decay upon the terrace, save for a tree that was profusely in bloom. Its enormous boughs arced in feathery clusters of white, adding their honeyed fragrance to the air. Even at this early hour, the tree buzzed with insects.

Its branches curved over a wrought-iron table. Fairhrim was seated there, on a stone bench. She wore one of Mrs. Parson’s shawls over her white Haelan dress. Mrs. Parson had taken out the fine porcelain in herhonour; her tea steamed away in the morning air in a cup of delicate pink.

Mr. Parson, the groundsman, stood beside Fairhrim. They were engaged in a conversation about the flowering tree.

“Laburnum sperantia,” said Mr. Parson. “She’s over a hundred years old.”

“I thought I recognised it,” said Fairhrim. “Isn’t it quite unusual to find one at this latitude?”

Mr. Parson ran a hand over the tree’s trunk. “Yes. One of the great ladies of Rosefell Hall planted her long ago. Brought her as a sapling from Suomi.”

“She’s thriving.”