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He held his arm overhead; she spun out and spun back in; pale skirts clung to black trousers.

What was between them? Once it had been a theatre of war; now it was a no-man’s-land. They had grown entangled in each other through reciprocities. Healing and killing, killing and healing.

The music swelled. Mordaunt radiated warmth; Aurienne could feel it through the front of her dress where it brushed his chest, through her glove where he clasped her hand. He was loose and relaxed; his head hung low, the scruff at his jaw brushed her cheek. The hand that had been decorously perched at her waist slid into the small of her back. Through the fine fabric of her dress, she felt the press of his signet ring.

Their faces were near each other’s. Mordaunt looked at her mouth like he thought of kissing it.

He was a very good actor.

To their audience below, a kiss would be utterly unremarkable—normal—expected, even. Aedan had found a recipient for his drink, but he was still looking at Aurienne.

“Let’s put the poor bastard out of his misery,” said Mordaunt, his voice more warmth than word against Aurienne’s mouth.

A lie—that’s what was between them now.

Their cheeks touched. Their noses brushed. His eyes flashed ardent, wanting.

“I don’t kiss patients,” said Aurienne against his lips.

“I thought I wasn’t a patient,” said Mordaunt.

“Right. You’re just a Point of Leverage.”

“You must make use of me.”

And, because Aedan was watching—and only because Aedan was watching—Aurienne rose to her tiptoes and ran silk-clad fingers through Mordaunt’s hair.

He didn’t hesitate, didn’t give her time to change her mind. He pulled her in close, put a hand around the back of her neck, tilted her head upwards.

Then came the tender apocalypse of his lips on hers.

She felt Mordaunt’s scar against her mouth, felt the tightening of his hand at her neck, savoured Scotch and chocolate and lies from his lips. Her body didn’t know what her brain knew; her heart beat wild in her chest; breathing became an act of discipline, irregular ins and outs and ins and outs between the press of rain-wet lips.

While it lasted, the kiss was eternal.

And it was too much and too little, and it was unhallowed, and it was sacrosanct.

There was warmth at the side of her neck. Mordaunt mapped the course of raindrops against her throat with his mouth. He released a long, shuddering breath against her skin. He held her against him rather possessively for a kiss that meant nothing.

The audience sighed about a thing that did not exist.

Aurienne stilled. The music carried on; the violins made a rapturous chorus with the dripping melody of the rain. She released her hold on Mordaunt’s shoulder, but his lingered at her waist. He kept her hand clasped in his. His nearness, the kiss, her rushing blood, all heightened her perception, and, as at the lighthouse, she saw warring in his eyes: vulnerability, yearning, desperate unhappiness.

He retreated into irony. Grey hardened into silver. He said, “Didn’t think you would.”

As for Aurienne, she regretted the kiss immediately—because it blurred already-blurred lines, because of what he was and what she was, because it felt good.

She blinked rain-misted eyes. She liked her precious categories. She liked things sharp and delineated. She liked contrasts. Clarity. Knowing where she stood.

She did not care about the secret calligraphies of rain.

She said, “I’d better go.”

He said, “If you must.”

Aurienne turned away. She dropped his hand and its profane tacn.

He released hers slowly. Leather slid against silk, palm slid against palm, fingertip slid against wet fingertip, and whatever had been woven between them stretched and tore and severed with a snap.