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“Never mindhow,” said Aurienne. “I’ve just killed Lord Wellesley.”

Mordaunt tutted. “Murderer.” He stood over Wellesley’s corpse and wiggled a finger over it in a circle. “That was meant to be my job. I was going to enjoy it. But I forgive you.”

Aurienne stared at the gory exhibition around them. “What—what’s the bloody importance of the name of the donor? Isn’t itgoodsomeone donated? Why the desperate need to know? Why did he want to hurt a Haelan to find out? Why was it worththis?”

“Don’t know,” said Mordaunt. “But we need to get out of here. There’s an entire garrison just outside these walls, and when this is discovered—”

“Right,” said Aurienne. “Get back into the armour. We were never here.”

Aurienne—now, officially, a Murderer—plunged back into the reception room, straightened her dress, sat primly in a chair, and tried to look annoyed, rather than aghast. Mordaunt, his blood-soaked clothes hidden by shining armour and his sword wiped clean on Wellesley’s trousers, tumbled in after her, shut the door to the carnage, and stood at attention next to her. A split second later, Pipplewaithe popped his head into the reception room with an enquiring twitch of the feather.

“Hullo!” he said. “Still haven’t gone in, eh? They’re always behind.”

“No, we haven’t,” said Aurienne. “I’m quite sick of waiting, actually. At this juncture, I’d like to go see the patient, rather than her father.”

“I am so sorry, Haelan Fairhrim,” said Pipplewaithe. “I shall interrupt them. It’s simply unacceptable to keep you like this.”

Pipplewaithe knocked, and knocked again, and opened the door, and let out a high-pitched scream.

Aurienne and Mordaunt acted theirhearts out as news of the massacre spread through the Keep. They were questioned for hours, but held fast to their story—greatly assisted, credibility-wise, byPipplewaithe’s testimony—that they had been stuck in the reception room, had heard nothing and seen nothing, and had discovered the murders only when Pipplewaithe had opened the door.

The consensus was that a Haelan (Harm to none, etc.) and a single Swanstone guard simply could not be responsible for butchery at this scale against ten of Wellesley’s best men, fully armed, and that Kent must be to blame.

Lord Wellesley’s second-in-command, freshly arrived from some excursion, slammed his fist on several tables, and declared that Wessex must go to war with Kent.

“Oops,” said Mordaunt.

Aurienne and Mordaunt were sent back to their rooms between bouts of questioning. No one noticed Mordaunt’s half-closed eye under his helmet; when their interrogators had left, he explained to Aurienne that jumping between shadows that weren’t connected was far more burdensome on his seith, and hence, he had triggered his Cost.

Their moments alone gave Aurienne ample time to gurgle and churn with guilt. She had notHarm to none’d. She had done the opposite. She had killed. She was no better than the Fyren.

She glanced at him. He seemed bored; he had killed ten times the men she had, and on purpose, and he cared not at all. Aurienne, sick with convulsions of guilt, wished she could be as lackadaisical, but no—she was highly daisical.

She sent Cíele to Xanthe with the latest developments and with many apologies, as though apologies were sufficient to atone for starting a war.

Xanthe’s axolotl deofol, Saophal, carried her answer to them: “Shit.”

“That’s what I said. Also, I murdered someone.”

“Who?” asked Saophal.

“Wellesley,” said Aurienne. “Meant to put him in a faint when he attacked me, but he fell wrong. Cracked open his skull and spilled his brains out. Died instantly.”

Saophal looked grave. “He attacked first?”

“Yes.”

“Self-defence, then.”

“It was.” Aurienne held her head in her hands. “I still feel sick.”

“Who witnessed it, other than the Fyren?” asked Saophal.

“No one,” said Aurienne.

“Then no one will know,” said Saophal. “If the Fyren tells anyone, no one will believe him anyway.”

“Oi,” said Mordaunt from where he lounged on the bed.