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March sniffled and sneezed toits rainy, miserable end. Osric heard nothing further from Fairhrim for the remainder of the month, which was excellent, because he couldn’t stand her. However, after weeks had passed in silence, and brought with them nothing but the advancement of the rot, he found himself hoping that Fairhrim would grace his tacn with her seith again. He wished she would make some spectacular discovery and her deofol would materialise and throw insults at him while delivering the good news.

She did not; it did not. In this sense, both continued to provoke him.

Osric dealt with his anxieties by thieving his way through the finest galleries in the Tiendoms and murdering minor members of the peerage.

“Perhaps,” he suggested to Mrs.Parson when the silence drew overlong, “Fairhrim has died.”

Mrs.Parson gave him one of those half-pitying, half-affectionate looks that sometimes escaped her, as though she weren’t his steward but rather a tolerant aunt. “She’s told you what you need to know. You can’t expect a Haelan to keep up a frequent correspondence with a Fyren.”

They were eating in the kitchens. Well, Osric was eating. Mrs.Parson was attempting to make apricot jam, but the stoned apricots kept disappearing before they could make their way into the pot.

“I’ve got the address you were looking for,” said Mrs.Parson, plucking a bit of paper out of her apron and passing it to Osric, who hovered behind her. “You’re meeting Haelan Fairhrim tomorrow night?”

“Yes. Ten o’clock at the Rummy Thing, somewhere in Kent.”

Mrs.Parson, who had been measuring sugar, spilled a bit of it and tutted to herself.

“It’s the Hara moon tomorrow,” said Osric. “I didn’t know moons had names. Did you?”

“Learned them from my mother long ago,” said Mrs.Parson. “Haelan Fairhrim surprises me. Her sort don’t keep to the Old Ways.”

“She doesn’t. She’s hostile about it. I’m never sure whether she’s going to heal me or knee me in the spuds.” Osric flung himself into a chair. “I don’t like any of this. I don’t like needing her.”

“She’s your only hope,” said Mrs.Parson.

“Aegri somnia, that’s what she is. A sick man’s dream.”

Osric’s tacn tingled, but it was not the restrained coolness of Fairhrim’s seith. It was, on the contrary, lively, demanding, and sharp. He held up his palm. Tristane’s deofol gleamed into existence above Mrs.Parson’s cutting board.

Tristane’s deofol was a polecat—a violently irritable creaturenormally, but today she was in an unusual good mood. “Hullo. What’s all this? Are you making jam?”

“Trying to,” said Mrs.Parson. “Apricot.”

“Lovely,” said the polecat. “Un délice.Sunshine on toast.”

“To what do we owe the pleasure of your company?” asked Osric.

“Tristane has finally caught Noldo,” said the polecat, with a delighted spin in midair.

“Oh, bravo,” said Osric.

“The burning will take place tomorrow at sunset,” said the polecat. “All Fyren are expected to attend. Meet at the Dog’s Bollocks.”

“I’ll be there,” said Osric. “Give Tristane my felicitations.”

The polecat gleefully flashed her fangs and said,“Avec plaisir,”then spun upon herself and disappeared.

“Putrid luck for Noldo,” said Osric.

“That’s just before you’re meeting the Haelan,” said Mrs.Parson.

“It is,” said Osric. “Do you think she’ll notice if I smell like Fyren flambé?”

All levity aside, watching Noldo’scorpse burn was a sober reminder of the Fyren Order’s ruthless willingness to cull those who no longer served its purposes. Osric left for the Rummy Thing as soon as he was able, accompanied by a new sense of urgency to heal his failing seith system, as well as a whiff of burnt flesh.

The Rummy Thing was, indeed, a rummy thing. In the long shadows of the April evening it looked more like a shack than a pub, suffocated by ferns, leaning against the waystone in a weary sort of way. The waystone was also unusual—it was almost perfectly round, with a hole right through the middle.

The pub was surrounded by trees, from which an upright figure detached herself and advanced, iceberg-like, towards Osric. Fairhrimhad hidden her Haelan whites under a blue travelling cloak. The cloak did little to camouflage everything else that made Fairhrim Fairhrim, however—the sharp cheekbones, the superior tilt of her chin, the disdainful set of her mouth.