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“What’s this for?” asked Cath when Aurienne placed the bottle of Rathcroghan’s Fortified before her.

“Buying.”

“What?”

“Your silence.”

Cath’s brow shimmered an interrogative purple. “Continue.”

Aurienne sat. She served Cath and herself in a crippled beaker and a wonky flask, respectively. Cath took a generous swig of her wine. Aurienne was more careful; Rathcroghan’s Fortified consisted of wine, brandy, caffeine, and the potential to reduce Aurienne to a talking pile of vomit.

“I need your advice on wound management,” said Aurienne. “But it’s top secret, and I will deny that we had this conversation.”

Cath’s eyes, edged with impeccably sharp purple wing tips, narrowed at Aurienne. “What sort of wound?”

“Penetrating abdominal trauma,” said Aurienne.

“Ooh,” said Cath. “My favourite.”

“The individual was impaled by something long and metallic.”

“If they were stabbed, you can just say so,” said Cath.

“I can’t,” said Aurienne. “You’d have to report it.”

“Youought to be reporting it,” said Cath.

“Yes, which is why I will deny having had this conversation,” said Aurienne.

She explained what she had done so far, accompanying the explanation with a diagram on a napkin to demonstrate the curve of organs and the knife’s near penetration thereof.

She thought the diagram masterful and clear, but Cath asked, “Why have you drawn a tit wank?” and offended her.

“It’s not a tit wank.”

“That’s a cheeky cock.”

“That’s the kni—er, the implement.”

Cath set aside the tit wank. “You’re positive that there was no perforation of the intestinal tract?”

“None.”

“You’ve closed him up?”

“Yes.”

“He’s hemodynamically stable?”

“Yes.”

“No signs of peritonitis?”

“No. It’s early, but no.”

“Antibiotics, analgesics, and observation, then,” said Cath. “But if you notice any signs of clinical deterioration, you’re to shut down your illicit personal hospital immediately. I’ll send my deofol to check in on you.”

“No, no,” said Aurienne. “Don’t send your deofol.”