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So Fairhrim’s mother was a brain, too. Good to know, but also, at the moment, he didn’t care.

“Er—sorry to disappoint, but no,” said Osric.

“Oh, well, never mind,” said Radia, replacing her glove with obvious disappointment. “What are your thoughts on the ecgium alloy that’s making such waves?”

“Some interesting applications,” said Osric, “but it’s got nothing on blaec, of course.”

Radia blinked at him. “Well, blaec isn’t exactly widely available, is it?”

“Right. No.”

“What’s blaec?” asked Rosbert.

“A wonder metal,” said Radia, “whose secrets are kept by that awful, obscure little Order—what’s-their-name, the murdery sorts—”

“The Fyren,” bit out Fairhrim.

Dimly, through the black fuzz encroaching on his vision, Osric was aware that he was an idiot for talking about blaec. Fairhrim reaffirmed this by bayonetting him with her eyes. He should definitely not open his cloak to show Fairhrim’s mum the blaecblade jutting from his side, then; his brain, gurgling through what remained of his blood, was certain of this, at least.

Osric tucked a hand into his cloak. Things felt rather wet and sticky even through his glove, and not in a sexy way. He realised that he couldn’t remove his hand, lest everyone see the blood.

“Fair—er—Aurienne, might I steal you away for a moment?” he asked, feeble voiced.

“Yes,” said Fairhrim.

“Are you quite all right, Mr.Hungwell?” asked Rosbert.

“Of course. Just need to talk business for a moment—scalpel order—wouldn’t want to bore the party.”

“Excuse us,” said Fairhrim. “We’ll be back in a minute.”

Osric followed Fairhrim to the foyer, mercifully devoid of people.

When Fairhrim had ascertained that they were alone, she let Osric see the full brunt of her wrath in the form of flared nostrils. “Whatis going on? You’d better have a good explanation for coming to my parents’ home and inviting yourself in—”

“Fairhrim.”

“What?”

“I’m bleeding out.”

“You’re—what?”

Osric pulled his dripping glove out of his cloak. “But I hate to interrupt—quite a lovely party, if it wasn’t for you perforating me with your eyes every few seconds. Going to leave me bloodier than the knife—”

“The knife?” repeated Fairhrim. “Show me.”

Osric fumbled with the clasp of his cloak. His hands shook; his fine motor skills were shot. In light of his futile attempts with the clasp, Fairhrim made an impatient click of the tongue and reached for it herself. She tugged at it with brisk movements, threw it open, gasped, and flung it closed again.

“Mother, would you give us a bit of privacy?” she called over Osric’s shoulder. Osric was pleased that he wasn’t the only one in the world towards whom she could direct that precise, Fairhrimish ring of Supreme Irritation.

“I was just coming to see if everything was all right, but I see that it is,” said Radia, shimmering into existence next to her daughter. “Might we refrain from getting handsy just before we serve the sweets?”

There was something martyred in Fairhrim’s expression—that her own mother would suggest such antics with a known Murdery Sort…

“Mum, please,” said Fairhrim, holding Osric’s cloak shut, as Osric stuffed his blood-soaked glove into a pocket. “He’s unwell. I’d like to examine him in private.”

Radia grew serious. “Oh? Shall we have him lie down? Take him upstairs—oh, but the guest rooms are all taken—”