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He wiped the evidence of his shame off his cock and noticed thatthe napkin wasthatnapkin. He hoped that Fairhrim wouldn’t have need of her diagram anymore.

Gods.

Her father had called him decent.

Gods.

It was all right. It would be fine. No one had witnessed his solitary indecency. No harm could come of it.

The only problem was that there now lived, in his head, visions of Fairhrim that should never have been there, and that he knew he wanted to see again.

Four days after Osric’s ill-fatedarrival upon Radia and Rosbert’s doorstep, it was the night of the party. The back garden was turned into a green and gold arbour lit up with free-floating lamps. Fairhrim friends and relatives showed up en masse and ate, and drank, and danced. Over it all lay the scent of greenhouse blooms and the glamour of a perfect June evening.

Osric watched the goings-on from the shadows of the balcony. Fairhrim’s parents had invited him to attend, but she had flashed him a look that saidDon’t you dare, and Osric had declined. They sent Tartiflette up with bites of food from the party, as well as a pity bottle of Scotch. Fairhrim had flashed Osric a second look, and warned him that he could have two drinks, and not more. It was a miracle that he hadn’t gone blind from all these flashes of hers. She was a bloody heliograph.

It was a tranquil way to pass an evening, anyway: eyeballing the jewels on the hands of various aunts, watching Fairhrim, counting how many drinks Uncle Pilheard downed, watching Fairhrim, assessing the string quartet, watching Fairhrim…

Why was he watching Fairhrim? Oh, many reasons. Because it was interesting to see her outside the usual context of dusty clinics. Becauseshe danced unexpectedly well. Because there was nothing better to do. Because he actually had brain damage from the Syndrome.

If it wasn’t for the fact that it was Fairhrim whom he was observing so attentively, he could almost think he fancied her. What a joke that would be. What a celestial irony.

It was clear, from Fairhrim’s spinning about the garden in the arms of others, and kissing cheeks, and laughing, that she was well liked, even well loved.

Fairhrim bestowed swift smiles on all who asked her to dance (point of interest: she never bestowed swift smiles on Osric) and left behind her a trail of discarded adorers as she moved from one to the next. They were all underbred youngbloods with nothing to recommend them; Osric was far more handsome. And richer.

Poor Tartiflette kept coming upstairs with offerings for Osric. This time she joined him on the balcony with oblong brown things on a plate, like some sort of poo sommelier.

“Thank you,” said Osric.

The brown things were chocolates. Tartiflette gurgled in an agony of lovestruck shyness and left again.

Osric watched Fairhrim release the chinless wonder she was dancing with and move on to another. This one was tall. Admittedly good-looking. Love-light in his eyes. Presently dancing with Fairhrim for a third time. Osric was taken over by a savage jealousy.

It was the Season of Betrayal.

No. One couldn’t get possessive over a thing that wasn’t one’s to begin with—and that one had no desire to possess anyway. That would be ridiculous. Osric went back to watching the aunts to decide if anything was worth stealing, due to a sudden, unrelated-to-Fairhrim, urge to join the party. A solid gold torc caught his eye, as did a jewelled lorgnette.

He stress-ate chocolate.

Where had Fairhrim got to?

There she was—at the door of the bedroom, rapping her distinct knock.

Osric had known, of course, having watched her below, that she was wearing a lovely champagne gown, and had gathered her dark hair in a crown braid with orchids tucked into it, but it didn’t lessen the shock when she came in looking not at all like the Haelan and looking, instead, fresh, sylphidine, and very much beautiful.

Not beautiful. Just pretty.

Just pretty.

Osric did not want Fairhrim to be beautiful. He was susceptible to beauty. He was an Appreciator of beautiful things. He wanted to acquire them. He wanted them to be his. Now, as Fairhrim neared, he fought a momentary panic that his beauty-loving heart would want Fairhrim in any way, that her loveliness tonight would trigger some latent kleptomaniac urge.

He hated Fairhrim. Ergo, she was not beautiful. This was the only solution; the cognitive dissonance would be unbearable otherwise.

He conceded a vast prettiness that took her to the very edge of beauty. Besides, this was temporary. Soon the night would be over, and Fairhrim would return to the choke of her high-necked dress and her usual froideur, and be the Haelan again. This was a moment as ephemeral as the orchids in her hair.

Also—also—he wouldn’t be attracted to her because she wasn’t attracted to him. One-sided attraction was a power differential he used to his advantage, and he did not wish to be on the receiving end of any such thing from Fairhrim.

There was a totter in Fairhrim’s step. She was loose limbed from a few drinks. The flush of the dance was on her cheeks. (Most certainly the dance, and not the influence of the Tall Good-Looking Other Man.)