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As he strode behind her, his helmet under his arm, his breastplate gleaming with the platinum-white wings of a swan, his hair swept messily to one side, he looked, for a moment, noble. Knightly. Valorous. His scars might’ve been gained in deeds heroic rather than craven.

Then he opened his mouth—“Did youseethat bed? I thought it was for the dog”—and the mirage faded, and he was the Fyren again.

“What are you looking at?” asked Mordaunt.

“A could-have-been,” said Aurienne.

Her gnomic response was of less interest to Mordaunt than the looking glass above the mantel, into which he peered while asking, “Why didn’t you let them fuss about your hair?” accusatorially, as though Aurienne had let an occasion slip.

“I’m not here to have my hair fussed over,” said Aurienne.

“Iwould’ve let them, though you’re the one in more immediate need.”

(A knight in shining armour he wasn’t, but a knight in shining passive aggression—yes.)

Mordaunt took a moment to regain that artfully wind-tousled sweep he usually had going.

“And this,” he said, pulling the standard-issue Swanstone sword from its sheath. “Rubbish. Horrid balance. No edge to speak of.”

“Can you stab someone with it?” asked Aurienne.

“Yes.”

“Then it’ll do.”

Mordaunt, who had been inspecting the length of the blade with one eye closed, cast an intrigued look in her direction. “I thought we were going for fewer cadavers.”

“We are,” said Aurienne. “However, I would like to not become one myself. Our welcome was odd.”

“This entire situation is odd.”

“What’s your read on it?”

Mordaunt produced a whetstone and sat, with much rattling, upon an ottoman. He began to work on the sword. “Don’t think the kid is sick. Don’t think the good Lord Wellesley brought in a Haelan for her skills, either—at least, not for the kid.”

“Maybe he’s got someone else to heal? Himself?”

“Possible. Also, those men out there are ready to march. Don’t know if that coincides with your arrival.”

“If he thinks he’s going to hold me for use as a private field medic, he’s in for a nasty shock.”

Mordaunt ran the whetstone down the blade in thoughtful strokes. “You’d also be useful if he’s got a stubborn captive with some critical intel. Torture, heal; torture, heal.”

“That’s dark,” said Aurienne.

“I’d do it,” said Mordaunt. “Doubt he has the brains. Is there a Lady Wellesley? The chamberlain didn’t say, did he? What’s-his-name—Pumpypipple, or whatever it was; couldn’t hear a thing through the helmet—sounded like an angry fart.”

“Pipplewaithe.”

“Right.”

“Lord Wellesley’s wife died in childbirth,” said Aurienne. “Wellesley mentioned it in his letter to my Order, among other tearjerkers.”

“Perhaps his goal is to find a new wife with a useful skill set during a war. Perhaps he’s going to seduce you.”

“Good luck,” said Aurienne.

“I know. Lost cause.”