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Osric would have to get her alone as soon as possible to explain.

Also to help with the small matter of the knife.

Fairhrim’s mother, whose attention was mercifully on a tray of champagne being whisked by, did not see their mutual gawping. “You might’ve mentioned, Aurienne. You are so forgetful sometimes—just like your father—but no matter; the more, the merrier.”

Fairhrim, who had, in Osric’s experience, a mind like a steel trap, said, “I’m sorry. I forgot to mention.”

An older man joined them, tall, white skinned, slightly stooped about the shoulders. “What am I accused of this time?”

“Forgetfulness, among your many sins,” said Fairhrim’s mother. “Aurienne invited her newest Friend for drinks and neglected to tell me—an inherited trait.”

Fairhrim looked as though she wished to strangle Osric with his own collar. “Yes. This is my—Friend,” she said, having never sounded so constipated around a word.

“Osric Hungwell,” said Osric, offering his hand to Fairhrim’s parents.

Fairhrim took his alias in her stride, though twitchily. “May I introduce my mother, Radia, and my father, Rosbert?”

“Pleasure,” said Osric, shaking hands with both.

The father’s handshake was firm; the mother’s was pinchy. Radia’s eyes ran down his ensemble, which, though dusty (and bloodstained, if she approached enough to observe it), was obviously quality, and seemed to satisfy her. Fairhrim’s father regarded Osric with mild curiosity, as though his daughter had brought in a stray dog and he wished to make friends with it.

They had a definite whiff of the nouveau riche: the earrings in the mother’s ears, the cane in the father’s hand, the house—no, they were not old money. Osric continued to feel superior to Fairhrim, and all was well in the world, except for the knife in his guts, and the fact that she might, after all, be prettier than him.

He wanted a quick word with her to inform her that he was actively in the process of dying, but they were swept into the crowd and deposited in a reception room. Fairhrim recovered her composure from her initial shock and was glassy and restrained as Osric was introduced to various other Fairhrims whom he did not care about.

“Might I have a word—” began Osric, but Aunt Plectrude drew him into conversation about the state of the roads. Had he heard of the tragic accident that had befallen those Mercians? (He had, actually.)

“If we could step out a moment—” tried Fairhrim, but she was askedfor an update on the Pox, and made some curt, generally optimistic pronouncements, only many of the poor surviving children were not quite right; the Pox inflamed the brain—there was a general consensus that this was a pity.

Osric nodded, then said again, “Perhaps we could, just for a minute—”

A drink was pushed into his hand by Fairhrim’s father. Scotch. Very good Scotch. Osric drank the Scotch. Would it pour out of his perforated intestine? He felt this would be difficult to explain. He was made to try bits of food. Some of it was unusual—salads with no salad but, rather, tomatoes, cucumbers, and onion; beans marinated in something calledchermoula. All exceptionally good; he could not appreciate it fully, however, because he was dying.

“You’re pale,” said Fairhrim. “Your hands are shaking. What’s the matter?”

“He said he was cold,” said Radia. “Poor thing. Tartiflette! The furnaces.”

“I’ve turned them up, madam,” said Tartiflette. “Shall I go higher? What setting?”

Radia, wild-eyed and imperious, said, “Inferno.”

The world grew distant. Osric didn’t wish to overreact, but he thought this might be getting urgent. “I—”

“So, tell us, Mr.Hungwell,” came Rosbert’s friendly enquiry, “how did you and Aurienne meet?”

Osric cleared his throat in a pained sort of way. He had very little blood in his brain to fabricate an answer, given that much of it was presently soaking through his shirt and waistcoat. “Well—erm—that’s an interesting story—”

Fairhrim, bless her, immediately took over the tale. “He’s a consultant. We hired him a few months ago. He’s an expert in—”

“Knife,” blurted Osric.

“Y-yes,” said Fairhrim. “He’s reviewing our surgical-instrument inventory at Swanstone.”

Osric made a mild recovery and said, “Metallurgy is one of my areas of speciality.”

“He’s produced some truly remarkable dissecting and dressing sets. Artery forceps to die for. And the episiotomy scissors, frankly gorgeous—they keep their edge like nothing else—”

“Metallurgy!” said Radia. She removed her glove and showed her right palm to Osric. The tacn there consisted of golden gears. “I’m an Ingenaut. Am I in the company of a fellow member of the Order?”