Page 99 of The Exquisite Torment of Loving Your Enemy

“I’m pleased there’s someone here to admire her today,” said Mr. Parson.

Fairhrim looked up at the tree in an uncharacteristic reverie. Her gaze remained soft as it turned to Osric.

Mrs. Parson arrived with a tray for Osric and bid him to eat it all before making her way back to the kitchens. Mr. Parson offered her his elbow. They walked arm in arm, whispering about there being, one day, another great lady at Rosefell Hall. Mr. Parson plucked a fallen leaf from Mrs. Parson’s hair.

“It seems nice,” said Fairhrim, watching them go.

“What?” asked Osric.

“What they have. An ordinary sort of love.”

“I don’t think either of us is destined for an ordinary sort of love.”

Fairhrim didn’t acknowledge the remark but didn’t contradict it, either. The dogs formed an attentive pile rug at her feet. She threw bits of crust towards open maws before asking, “How are you feeling?”

“Lethally hungover,” said Osric.

“Lady Windermere dosed you with something potent.”

“You haven’t slept at all.”

“Well, obviously.”

“You should.”

“As soon as I finish my tea.” Fairhrim moved along the bench to make room for Osric. “Sit. The dogs shall have a new victim.”

“They aren’t starving. They’re lying,” said Osric, nevertheless tearing up a piece of toast and distributing it to the eight mouths under the table. “I must thank you. If you hadn’t got a wild hair last night and decided to come here, I’d be dead. It’s a bit late to make introductions, but Lady Windermere was Brythe’s lover. She’s been searching for his killer for months. And last night, she found rather compelling evidence of my involvement. I’d locked that blaecblade in my best safe. But Lady Windermere was motivated. I suppose the maths works out: I killed him for you, you killed her for me…”

He expected an objection to such a use of mathematics, but none came. Fairhrim, her arms crossed under her head, had fallen asleep on the table.

Osric ate his toast. Had he always chewed this loudly?

The dogs, who found crusts an insufficient breakfast, went inside to harass Mrs. Parson instead.

Osric poured a cup of tea. Anxious about waking Fairhrim with the tinkling sound of stirring in milk and sugar, he drank it black, at great personal sacrifice.

Fairhrim was safe at his side. That was the principal thing.

Her hands were a bit blistered along the knuckles and nails; she had triggered her Cost by working on him all night. Just what he wanted. More ropes of owing around his neck.

Her fingers were lightly curled over her tacn. There was such deceptive power therein. Osric understood now why neither Xanthe nor Fairhrim had been remotely concerned when he had first broken into her office, many moons ago. Last night, there had been no weapon. Only touch. Thus it had been with the wightlings at the asylum, too. Fairhrim and her tacn too bright to look at: a bolt of lightning, a Valkyrie’s spear.

She slumped off the table and onto Osric’s lap.

Osric froze. It was as though an extraordinarily rare, skittish creature had just alighted on him. The feel of it went to his heart and stayed there.

He did not move. Something similar had happened once before, at the lighthouse, and sent the same thrill through him. That was so long ago now.

They made a romantic tableau vivant, he and she, together on the mossy bench, framed by garlands of white. The light shifted, became translucent and tender. Wind rustled by in a whisper. The steam from the cups of tea danced along it, briefly making the breeze visible. Blossoms drifted down. All was summer beauty. All was slow-dripping silence.

Upon his lap lay one fairer than summer.

It was a glimpse of a possible future. Something quiet, gilded with peace.

A petal landed upon Fairhrim’s cheek and clung there like a kiss. She, the ice queen, she, the iron wrought, was collapsed upon his lap, as soft and warm as a housecat.

Osric realised that he was smiling.