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Fairhrim never troubled to flirt with him, but her dark look, the amused press of her lips, and the brush of her elbow against his all had much the same effect on Osric; all mingled with the drink, was more potent than the drink, warmed his blood, threatened to heat his face. He thought forbidden thoughts about her lips again, what they had done in his imaginings, what he would like to do to them.

She was a thing between desire and impossibility.

Was he becoming one of those pathetic men who found a woman more desirable in direct proportion to how unattainable she was?

She held up her glass and said, “Well done.”

Thank you, and I would like to die suffocated by your thighsdid not seem an appropriate response at this time.

Osric said, “I serve at your pleasure,” and held up his glass to hers.

She pressed her flute of champagne to his Scotch with a smile hidden in the corner of her mouth.

No, there was nothing worth stealing at the party below. But up here?

It occurred to him that he would like to steal a dance.

20

The Secret Calligraphies of Rain

Aurienne

It was difficult, thought Aurienne as she leaned next to Mordaunt on the balcony, to hold him in her habitual disdain. Could one admire someone for acts of goodness, however self-interested, while simultaneously holding them in contempt? Aurienne found it impossible to maintain both perspectives concomitantly. Ultimately, he was a Fyren. And yet, and yet, and yet.

The man dying in her bed and his hot grasps at her hands were a memory. But what a memory. It should’ve been the best thing in the world to see him suffer, but it had been the worst thing in the world to see him suffer—so where did her peace lie? Certainly not here, not in the murk of this rapprochement, where he almost gave his life to protect her and she, with her own excuses, brought him back from the brink of death.

Aurienne, who revelled in accurate categorisation, hated that she no longer knew what to do with Mordaunt. He was an extraordinary combination of monster and man, of villainous and meritorious, base andnoble—and, on occasion, he did good. It changed the anatomical diagram of Mordaunt in her mind. Her labels no longer made sense. The bottles he had found with the suspected Pox virus were undergoing testing at Swanstone; if they came back positive, it would be yet another point in his favour, yet another source of unwished-for gratitude, yet another challenge to her neat categories.

Aurienne cast a glance towards Mordaunt, who was nearly himself again. She had noted, as she joined him on the balcony, the cross of braces between muscular shoulders, and the shirt, of a markedly good cut, raffishly open at the neck. Everything about him was, once more, posed and intentional, from his casual recline against the rail to the scruffy beginnings of a beard along his jaw to the smoothness ofI serve at your pleasureto the shirtsleeves pushed up to his elbows. So careless. So deliberate.

The brush of his arm against hers gave her a thrill. It was clandestine; it was wrong; it was the pretty foretaste of a kiss. Her heart skipped a beat.

“You know, it’s a good thing I listened to your advice,” said Mordaunt.

Aurienne, startled from her musings, intelligently replied, “Hmm?”

“Two drinks in and I’m positively mortalled.” Mordaunt swirled the remains of his Scotch. “Perfect Aedan is looking for you, by the way.”

Aurienne followed Mordaunt’s line of sight to the crowd below the balcony, where Aedan was indeed casting about with a glass in each hand.

“Poor bastard,” said Mordaunt. “That suit looks exactly like someone vomited on it.” He turned to Aurienne and added, inconsequentially, “We should dance.”

A draughty silence ensued.

“Why?” asked Aurienne.

“To convince him that you’ve moved on.”

“With an episiotomy-scissor peddler?”

“With faults and everything.”

“I’m not sure that’s necessary.”

“Look at him. Poor lovelorn pup.” Mordaunt’s pitying words did not match the stare he shot over the rail. “Although Perfect Aedanhasgot faults.”

“Which?” asked Aurienne.