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Mordaunt’s decaying house fell behind Aurienne. The night felt large, clear, and still. The air, laden with the smell of heather and clover, soothed her. She took deep, cleansing breaths of it; too much of the evening had been spent in a malodorous pub and, afterwards, in the foundering carcass of Rosefell Hall.

Collaboration with Mordaunt had seemed, briefly, possible. But perhaps it was better not to be entangled in another bargain with him. One ought to keep one’s deals with devils to a minimum.

Stars sparkled their eternities above, shrouded by the dapple of a thin cloud. Mist rose from the hollows, redolent with the slow scent of bracken.

Under the curve of the waning moon, an owl drew out a helix.

Aurienne followed the gravel path that led to Rosefell’s waystone. Her bare feet hardly made a sound upon the pebbles.

Someone else was even quieter.

“Fairhrim,” came Mordaunt’s voice.

Aurienne did not turn around. “We haven’t anything left to discuss tonight.”

“Fairhrim.”

“My deofol will find you with instructions for the next full moon.”

“Wait.”

Fingers in a leather glove caught her hand.

Aurienne turned. The Fyren was behind her, still in his shirtsleeves, bare necked, grave.

He never looked grave.

Aurienne stopped, her hand in his, two steps away from him, as though they were beginning a dance. Even through the glove, his hand was warm.

She waited. A small hushed wind sifted back and forth between them. The moon’s all-forgiving, all-encompassing light danced in ascatter upon the mist, stole colours, erased details. The world turned brumous; things grew softer, lost their outlines, became tender and faint.

Nightjars winged between moor and fairy moon. Their shadows darted and coursed at Aurienne’s feet in swift lines; meanings flickered in and out of existence, visible only if she did not look too close.

Mordaunt stood tense shouldered, wretched, pressing his fingers to hers. Aurienne felt his struggle with the same clarity as she perceived the night.

He needed her, and he hated her for it.

“I’ll do it,” said Mordaunt.

15

Osric Gets on Fairhrim’s Last Nerve

Osric

It had never been part of the plan, this negotiation business, this new round of bargaining, this bit of coercion on black moor turned silver sea. It hadn’t been part of the plan to reach with haggard desperation for the only hands that could heal him, to be beholden to a too-bright Haelan, to stand bare souled before her in the shadow of a waystone and, there, bend to her will.

“I’ll do it.”

Where was his war now? He ought to be back in the skirmish, not in this suspension between war and peace.

It sickened him that he waited for her answer with bated breath, counted time by doomed heartbeats until she said, “All right.” He hated the relief he felt, the gratitude, and hated most of all the swell of admiration for her bursting in his chest.

She was the only one who could save him from the chirurgeon’sbutchery. He had to admire her. She was the only one with the expertise, with the control. He had no choice but to admire her. She was the only one who could even make an attempt to cure his disease. How could he not admire her? He liked rare things. He cherished the exceptional.

Fairhrim softened when he breathed, “Thank you.”

Osric stood too long in that silver sea, holding her hand up as though he were about to kiss it. It occurred to him, madly, that he could pull Fairhrim in and crush her to him. It would be so easy. To what end? To what gain? He did not know. The gap must remain. The threshold must not be crossed. That was what they were doomed to: standing upon a threshold. On the verge and only ever on the verge. An almost. He was what he was; she was what she was.