Page 13

“Well, sir?” she asked. “What news?”

“Good news, I think,” said Osric. “Some pettifogging, but I suppose that was to be expected. She’ll do it.”

“Bless her.”

“No. Don’t bless her. She is singularly disagreeable; I don’t like her at all. Also, there is a hiccough.”

“Oh?”

“We’ve got to deposit that twenty million in gold by the end of the week.”

“That won’t be a problem,” said Mrs.Parson. “We’ve just received a heap of beautifully forged thrymsas from Beckenham.”

“They can’t be forged,” said Osric. “We’ll have to cough up real coin. The Haelan are already suspicious. I can’t risk delaying this—or having them withdraw from the agreement.”

Mrs.Parson was wide-eyed. “But…you haven’t got twenty million in gold.”

“I know. You’ll have to sell the triptych, andThe Milkmaid. The de Beauveau, too. It hurts me to part with them, but it can’t be helped. Talk to Sacramore. I suppose we can’t sellThe Eatersyet?”

“Far too hot. You just acquired it two months ago.”

“Right. Can’t exactly flog it down the pub, then. Sell whatever other bits and bobs we need to to reach the twenty-million mark. It’s to be offered as an anonymous donation to the Haelan Order, directed to the Pox fund. Can I leave the arrangements to you?”

Mrs.Parson nodded, but her eyes remained wide. “Twenty million. This is…this is a sizable portion of your fortune.”

“We will, obviously, be stealing it back.”

Mrs.Parson looked relieved. “Oh! Very good, sir.”

2

Aurienne Wishes Death upon Her New Patient

Aurienne

It was hard, being perfect in an imperfect world, but Aurienne managed. If she had a flaw, it was that she was the Best, and she knew she was the Best. Some called it arrogance. She called it competence untainted by performative humility.

But if she was the Best—as brilliant as she was beautiful, a researcher unparalleled, a friend cherished, a daughter beloved, a lover sometimes (Did anyone truly deserve her? Frankly, no)—why, pray, had she just been asked to care for the Worst? Tasked to heal a Fyren, of all the foul things in the world?

The Fyren had had the gall to leave her his card. It was black, edged in gold, and proclaimed in an elegant script:

Osric Mordaunt.

Art. Acquisitions. Assassinations.

By appointment only.

The card was perfumed, which offended Aurienne more than the assassination appointments: Swanstone was a scent-free establishment.

She stepped out of her office and into the corridor, where she found poor Quincey in an unconscious heap under his desk. Once revived, Quincey remembered nothing of what had happened to him and decided that he must have fallen over. Aurienne healed his concussion and did not correct him.

It was tempting for Aurienne to conclude that Xanthe had lost the plot—that her mentor’s genius (and she was a genius, unrivalled in her field—peerless) had finally tilted into madness. However, as Aurienne tripped her way through halls heaped with victims of the Pox, she was forced to conclude that Xanthe wasn’t mad. Xanthe was an opportunist reacting to indifferent funding councils and apathetic monarchs. If the Fyren did come through with the gold—well, who was Aurienne to refuse?

A grey-robed apprentice sprinted past Aurienne and gasped, “Ward Fourteen—they’re asking for all available Haelan. Can you come?”

He was gone before Aurienne could answer. Aurienne pivoted and made for Ward 14. Honestly, the Fyren was only the newest complication in a day already bursting with them. And Aurienne was good at dealing with complications. She was good at dealing with everything.

She joined her harried colleagues in the temporary Platt’s Pox ward. Breage—the Paediatrics matron, usually imperturbable—was wild-eyed and breathless. Aurienne was assigned to four beds and poured her seith into children at the brink of brain death.