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“Importantis all right,” said Aurienne. “Importantis—justifiable. We’re valuable to one another.”

“But nothing beyond?”

“Nothing beyond,” said Aurienne. “Beyond would be impossible. He is what he is.”

“He is what he is,” repeated Cíele, with a grave nod.

Aurienne wished that she were satisfied by this conclusion, by this retreat into the safety of definitions, of classifications and structure. Mordaunt was a Fyren. Just a Fyren. But was hejust? When a man kills one of his own Order for you, nearly gets himself eviscerated for you, shows up half-dead at your door because of you, and collapses into your arms—is hejust?

When Cíele had first explained what he had seen, Aurienne had felt things she hadn’t a name for—or, more honestly, that she didn’t want to name. She did not wish to admire the Fyren, to hold him in regard, or to glow with gratitude at the thought of him. And yet, what massacre might the other Fyren have wrought at Swanstone? How many people had Mordaunt saved?

She knew that Mordaunt had sound, perfectly solipsistic reasons todo what he had done, of course. He was protecting his Means to an End. He hadn’t done it for her so much as for himself. And yet, he had done an act of Good.

A sigh fluttered Cíele’s whiskers. “I’d better go. I’m draining your seith. Your hands already look like you stuck them into a bin of scalpels and waved them about.”

“Right. I think I’d still like to consult Cath on management and rehab.”

“Is that wise?” asked Cíele. “Won’t she ask questions?”

“She will. I’ll tell her I can’t answer them at the moment. She’s the specialist; I’ve got to make sure I’ve done everything right. He deserves that much. Will you go to her, and ask if I can see her tomorrow? I think she’s in the operating theatre in the morning. I can pop by the pub at lunch.”

“Very well,” said Cíele. He spun in a solemn circle and disappeared.

When he was gone, Aurienne allowed herself to fix Mordaunt’s hair. A living Mordaunt would never permit his hair to be in this state; the mess made him look like he must be dead.

It was the excuse she made for herself, anyway, as she ran her fingertips through silver-white strands.

There was no excuse for brushing a gentle hand along his cheek.

Aurienne held her concerned familyat bay by telling them that Mr.Hungwell was out of harm’s way, and if they could give her a bit of time alone with him, he would be back on his feet within another day, thank you (this accompanied by a firmly closed door).

What Aurienne really wanted, after this massive seith exertion, was a hot meal, a steaming bath, a massage, and (while she was at it) an orgasm or two, to relax herself into sleep. Instead, she ate cold leftovers in the kitchens and dozed upon an uncomfortable sofa. She regeneratedenough seith to fix up the absolute state of her hands and took the waystone early the next morning to the Publish or Perish.

She left Tartiflette with instructions to stand guard outside Mordaunt’s room: no visitors. The man needed rest.

Before meeting up with Cath at the pub, Aurienne stopped at Swanstone for supplies. It was a Saturday, and mercifully quiet in the Centre for Seith Research. Aurienne nevertheless summoned Cíele to stand watch as she slipped into the supply room.

Cíele floated at the door, his tail sweeping back and forth in displeasure. “We’re stealing. I hope we don’t go to prison. I don’t think I’d do well in prison.”

“We won’t go to prison for a few cannulae and clamps,” said Aurienne as she stuffed her satchel with those, along with IV tubing, painkilling infusions, antibiotics, and packets of powdered bhreue. “My parents’ first aid kit is, unfortunately, not quite up to par for our needs.”

Also to note: she was now a thief as well as a murderer. Mordaunt really was rubbing off on her.

“What about an infusion stand?” asked Cíele.

“Can’t exactly stuff one into my bag,” said Aurienne. “I’ll work something out at the house—a coatrack or something.”

When she had crammed her pilfered stock into her satchel, Aurienne realised that because she kept impeccable inventory at the Centre, she would also have to modify the books to spare herself and other Haelan interrogations from Quincey when the numbers didn’t add up.

A bit sweaty about the armpits, Aurienne added forgery to her list of crimes.

A sound made her and Cíele jump. It was only Acts of Warranted Brutality, the black kitten that Mordaunt had found at Wellesley Keep. The kitten hated everyone, including Aurienne, except when she was hungry. She crept out from between shelves and mewled her distinctive meow—less of a meow than aneep eep—at Aurienne. Aurienne hadnothing to offer and told her to go to the kitchens. Acts of Warranted Brutality turned away in disgust.

“Someone’s coming,” whispered Cíele.

Quincey’s footsteps shuffled along the corridor, preceded by cheerful humming.

Cíele darted out of the supply room to hold him off long enough for Aurienne to close her satchel. She heard Cíele greet Quincey with unusual friendliness (Cíele was, as a rule, not friendly with anyone who wasn’t Aurienne). When she joined the two of them in the corridor, Cíele was feigning a profound interest in Quincey’s marmalade toast.