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Aurienne said nothing, because, you know.

Haelan Xanthe made an appearance, partook in the general hugging, and, when no one was looking, gave Aurienne an apologetic pat on the shoulder. Aurienne left Charity and Donations bitterly resigned to healing a Fyren for a—rather worthwhile, it had to be said—bribe.

As she entered her office, her tacn tingled. A deofol was incoming and requesting permission to take form. She recognised the sly, smoky seith; it was the Fyren’s deofol.

Aurienne locked the door and held her tacn towards the floor. Something dark and sinuous materialised next to her. The Fyren’s deofol took the shape of a wolfish shadow, ill-defined save for a sharp double line of white teeth.

“You’ve received the funds?” asked the deofol in a dusky hiss.

“Yes,” said Aurienne. “All seems to be in order.”

“Excellent.” The deofol’s disembodied grin floated upwards until it was at Aurienne’s eye level. “We’ve found a place to meet. Take a waystone to the Gogmagog.”

“What sort of place?” asked Aurienne.

“A meeting sort of place,” said the teeth, uselessly.

“Tell your master that I require an aseptic environment,” said Aurienne. “And it must be well ventilated.”

A golden eye appeared over the teeth. “I shall be sure to inform him of your preferences.”

“Specifications, not preferences,” said Aurienne.

A shrug rippled through the deofol. “Be at the Gogmagog at midnight.”

“Midnight?”

“The best time for mischief,” said the deofol.

“That’s far too late. I rise at four for my first rounds.”

“Have a nap, then.”

“A nap? You think I’ve got time for naps? We’re in the middle of a Pox outbreak, you impertinent—”

But Aurienne was speaking to nothing. The deofol had melted into shadow and disappeared.

Midnight came round. Aurienne, tired and irritated (she had not had the nap), packed her Haelan satchel. She descended snowy steps into Swanstone’s courtyard, from whence she made her way to the portcullis.

The Wardens were at their stations, a good head and shoulders taller than the guards. Their closed helmets shone under the moonlight; their wards shimmered across the snow at their feet.

The Haelan Order and the Warden Order had a long-standing, mutually beneficial agreement. The Wardens sent a complement of their best to Swanstone to protect the Haelan, and the Haelan sent a complement of their best to the Warden headquarters at Tintagel Castle to heal any Wardens in need. Aurienne’s next rotation at Tintagel’s infirmary would be coming up this autumn; she would have to see how to fit that into her many priorities.

She removed a glove and flashed the white glow of her tacn towards the Wardens.

“Late night, Haelan,” commented the tallest one as she drew the postern gate. Aurienne recognised her voice—this one was called Verity.

“Indeed,” said Aurienne. “Off for a drink. It’s been a long day.”

“Well deserved,” said Verity. “When shall we expect you back?”

“An hour or two, I should think.”

Verity inclined her helmet. “Take care of yourself.”

“Thank you.”

Aurienne passed through the gate with casual salutes from the other Wardens. Feeling like a liar and a criminal, she crossed the moat and went over the long bridge that connected Swanstone to the mainland. The fortress had originally been built on a peninsula, but the sea had long ago reclaimed the narrow isthmus. Fitful waves roiled far beneath Aurienne’s feet as she walked.