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“If itistrue, why would one of the Wessexian queen’s men send anyone to Swanstone?” asked Aurienne. “People aren’t that stupid. With the exception, of course, of one notable idiot who broke in to see me and pin his hopes on fairy tales.”

The Notable Idiot registered the insult with narrowed eyes.

“What have we got that Wellesley couldn’t obtain for himself?” mused Aurienne. “Or would want to destroy? Patient records? Prepublication material? Our archives? Our vault?”

“Wellesley is rich,” said Mordaunt. “He wouldn’t be interested in your vault.”

“If Scrope were still alive, we might’ve interrogated him further on the provenance of his information,” said Aurienne.

“If he was still alive, he’d bleed Cerys until she told him who you were and where to find you. And then he’d know too much. And I’d have to kill him anyway.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. He wouldn’t have.”

“Which of us is more intimately acquainted with vermin and their ways?”

“You,” conceded Aurienne. “You’re one of them.”

“Ibegyour pardon? Me? A gutter rat like Scrope? Have you seen where I live?”

Aurienne glanced about. Given that there was no gutter immediately within sight, she conceded. “Right. I suppose you’re just a rat, then. A plain rat.”

“Thank you.” Mordaunt, placated, settled back into his armchair.

Aurienne awoke her tacn to summon her deofol. “I’ve got to inform Xanthe of these developments.”

“Developments?” scoffed Mordaunt. “A shit bit of information from a shit source.”

“I will remind you that the shit source was your source,” said Aurienne, before whispering Cíele’s name into her tacn. (A deofol’s name was a private thing, and Mordaunt certainly wasn’t worthy of knowing hers.)

Her beloved Cíele materialised in her arms and wound his way affectionately up to her shoulder. His fur against her cheek was as soft and intangible as a breath.

When he noticed the Fyren, Cíele said, “Ew.”

“You remember Mordaunt, of course,” said Aurienne to Cíele.

“As one remembers a particularly distinctive haemorrhoid,” said Cíele.

Aurienne did not laugh, though she wished to. “I told you to keep things civil.”

“I have kept things civil,” said Cíele. “I haven’t even drawn blood.”

“You have absolutely drawn blood,” said Mordaunt.

“He’s only a little genet,” said Aurienne. “It was an accident.”

Mordaunt called Cíele a weasel-faced, pugnacious little squit. Cíele expressed amazement that the haemorrhoid could string together so many words.

“You’ve got to endure him for the foreseeable future,” said Aurienne.

“I know,” said Mordaunt and Cíele at the same time.

“She was talking to me,” said Cíele.

“She was obviously talking to me,” said Mordaunt.

“I was talking to him,” said Aurienne, pointing at her deofol.

Mordaunt looked pouty and ate a biscuit.