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Brythe’s blaecblade was sticking out of Osric’s side. So advanced was his torpraxia that he hadn’t even noticed; there was no pain, only a dull ache that grew more acute now that he was aware of the injury.

“Fuck,” said Osric.

He did not need the deofol’s advice to know that this was Not Good, but the deofol nevertheless said, “That’s Not Good.”

“No.Really?”

“You need a Haelan,” said the deofol.

“I do happen to know one,” said Osric. He strode across the roof, in the direction of Swanstone’s high-turreted silhouette.

Fairhrim’s deofol scampered in front of him. “No—wait—Aurienne isn’t at Swanstone.”

“She’s not at—what? Where is she?”

“The opera,” said the deofol. “That’s why she couldn’t let your deofol through—bit awkward to have a great bloody wolf materialise in the middle of the third act—”

“The opera?The opera?That’s where she is, and I’ve just got myself gutted for her?”

The deofol’s whiskers twitched in consternation. It was doing some quick thinking. “Take the waystone to the Higgledy-Piggledy in London. Go to number three, just across the way. It’s her parents’ house. She’ll be on her way there shortly, if she isn’t already. I shall try to warn her that you’re coming, but she’s surrounded by people. Your timing is appalling, as usual. Don’t pull out the knife, whatever you do—hide the wound. To the waystone,go.”

The deofol disappeared.

The little village of Swanstone-on-Sea was lit with torches as its inhabitants searched for the source of the screams. Someone discovered the puddle of Brythe’s blood under the awning.

Osric descended from the pub’s roof to the waystone and pressed his tacn to it. Down into the ley line towards London he went. He whirled back into himself upon shining cobblestones. This London wasdifferent to the London in which Osric normally conducted his business—it was a London of wide, leafy streets illuminated by electric globes instead of gas lamps, and bordered by elegant, if narrow, homes. No soot, no fumes, no reek of boiled fish and cheap spirits. Osric moved towards number three, catching glimpses of soft-lit drawing rooms as he passed.

His preference would have been to shadow-walk the house until he found Fairhrim, but, given the rather urgent state of affairs, he went directly to the front door.

Osric climbed the dozen white marble stairs, an exercise that ought to have been excruciating, given his injury, only the torpraxia-induced numbness made the knife feel like an unfriendly poke more than anything else. He drew his cloak around himself to cover the worst of his state, including the hilt protruding from his side. He made sure that his crisp collar was visible, and pulled on his gloves to hide his tacn.

A serving girl opened the door. Osric had a general impression of glittering bustle behind her—many voices, trays being conveyed to and fro by harried servants.

“Yes?” prompted the girl.

“Who is it, Tartiflette?” asked a voice, unknown and yet, with its intonations of authority and impatience, familiar. “Did we leave someone behind?”

“I’m a friend of Fair—erm, of Aurienne’s,” said Osric to the serving girl.

A woman popped over the serving girl’s shoulder and observed Osric coolly. “Oh? Aurienne didn’t mention that she had invited anyone.”

The woman was unmistakably Fairhrim’s mother. She had the same brown skin and masses of hair (though white at the temples)—and, more intimidatingly, the same darkly flashing, intelligent eyes.

She turned towards the well-dressed crowd behind her. “Aurienne! Your guest is here. Kindly make introductions.” She turned back to Osric. “Do come in and forgive the chaos—we’ve just got home. You must join us for a drink.”

Osric entered the foyer. Tartiflette, who had fallen in love with him immediately—because who didn’t?—blushingly offered to take his cloak. Osric made a polite refusal, claiming to have caught a chill. He did feel chilled—it probably had to do with the half litre of blood he had left at the waystone.

Fairhrim’s mother tutted. “Cold? On such a fine evening? Turn up the furnaces, Tartiflette.”

A figure emerged from the crowd behind Fairhrim’s mother. Fairhrim’s voice, resplendent with annoyance, preceded her. “Mum, did you say a guest of mine had—”

“Yes, your Friend,” said Fairhrim’s mother.

Fairhrim came into view. She froze when she saw Osric.

He froze when he saw her, too. This was Fairhrim off duty, nigh unrecognisable in a flowing mauve gown, elbow-length white gloves, and hair off the side of her neck in a soft wave. She was stunning—a disturbing development, and one that Osric set aside to cope with at a later moment.

Fairhrim’s surprise at the sight of Osric was such that it was clear her deofol hadn’t been able to get her somewhere private to explain. Her impassivity was challenged—her fingers gripped at the stem of a glass of wine; her jaw clenched. In the press of her lips Osric saw her fury: that he had harassed her all evening with his deofol, that he had the gall not only to come to her but to enter her parents’ home—that he dared to call himself herfriend.