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There were, at least, no worries about things getting mopey.

“Good,” said Osric. “Don’t bother. I’m downright cheerful. Because you’ve got a speculative hypothesis, and you’re going to test it out on me, and it’s going to work.”

Fairhrim gave him a look that was equal parts haughtiness and irritation. “It isn’t. It’s a waste of time. Given that I won’t be able to monitor your progress through regular visits at Swanstone, I’d like to put seith markers in you. Is that all right?”

“Why wouldn’t it be all right?”

“It’s not a common practice anymore. They’re painful to insert. And we have much better instruments to monitor progress now—but you can’t exactly visit me at Swanstone daily.”

“Do it, then.”

“It’s going to hurt,” said Fairhrim.

“Have you seen my scars?”

“Very well,” said Fairhrim. She pressed her tacn to his shoulder. “I’m going to put eight throughout your system.”

Her seith flared as she pressed in the first marker. It did, indeed, hurt—a potent, lingering, stinging pain, as of a thick needle jutting into the most tender parts of Osric’s seith channels. Eight times, eight deeply unpleasant times, Fairhrim stabbed her markers in. Out of sheer machismo, Osric did not flinch as she worked her way to his forearm, up his back, and down his legs.

He did not complain. He merely perspired.

Fairhrim observed him with mild approval before removing a third contraption from the wardrobe. Osric hoped that she hadn’t noticed the bead of sweat trickling down between his shoulder blades.

“Another machine?” asked Osric.

“Yes. I’m going to give you an overview of my speculative hypothesis, so that you understand what foolishness you’re asking us to embark on.”

“That’s a Lovelace engine,” said Osric, recognising the newfangled thingy.

“Well done.”

“I do pride myself on not being a complete idiot.”

“Do you?”

Fairhrim sounded genuinely surprised. Osric fantasised about throttling her for the second time in so many minutes.

Fairhrim pressed her tacn to the engine. It beeped into life. Osric stewed in his annoyance.

The figure on the wall with the rotted seith lines disappeared. It was replaced by a diagram of an oblong, grimy-looking stone adorned with vertical inscriptions.

“You’ve heard of the Monafyll Stone, of course,” said Fairhrim.

“No,” said Osric.

Fairhrim blinked at him. On her otherwise imperturbable countenance, it was an expression of astonishment. “I suppose I oughtn’t be shocked. It was only the greatest archaeological discovery of the century, but it’s got nothing to do with murders or money and therefore wouldn’t be of interest to you.”

“Thank you,” said Osric. “You’re growing to understand me.”

The prospect of such a rapprochement did not seem to enthuse Fairhrim. “A brief history lesson, then. The Monafyll Stone is believed to be at least five centuries old. At first glance, it appears to be nothing more than a lunar calendar, naming each of the year’s full moons. The appellations may be familiar to you; some of the nomenclature is still in use.”

Beside the drawing of the Stone, a list appeared:

Hrímfrost (Hoarfrost) Moon