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Fairhrim looked up, surprised, apparently, that he was still there. “No?”

“No.”

“Aren’t you the new undertaker?” asked Fairhrim.

“Actually, I’m—” began Osric.

Fairhrim was—there was no other word for it—attacked by a piece of paper.

She stabbed it into submission with an ink pen. “Sorry. We’ve an Ingenaut in residence at Swanstone—a brilliant member of a brilliant Order, of course, but some of her inventions work too well. She made the charts sentient. They get aggressive when you’re behind. You were saying…?”

“I’m not the new undertaker.”

Fairhrim was only half listening; she was wrestling the squirming paper. “Oh? Are you sure? You rather look like an undertaker. Or is it embalmer? Mortician? You must tell me the preferred term.”

“I’m here for healing,” said Osric.

“Healing?”

“Yes. Specifically from you.”

This felt, to Osric, like the right moment to begin to intrigue her. He pushed his hood back a little, so that she could see a bit of the Face. He tilted his head so that his cheekbone caught the light. His cleft chin clefted majestically.

Who wouldn’t want to heal this?

Fairhrim, as it transpired. Unaffected by this opening display, she said, with a dismissive wave, “If you’re participating in one of my Centre’s studies, go back down to reception. They’ll sort you out.”

Reception?Reception?

Osric had been too subtle, obviously.

In the midst of her wave, Fairhrim paused. “Hang on—how did you get in here? I thought you’d been let in because you were the undertaker.”

“I let myself in,” said Osric.

“Did you, indeed?” Fairhrim was unimpressed by this feat. “Well, you can’t just barge in and expect a healing. We’re selective about who we take on at Swanstone. This isn’t a hospital. It’s a research institute. You’ve got to go through the proper channels.”

“I won’t go through the proper channels,” said Osric, “because no one else must know of this. It’s got to be our little secret.”

He hit her with a grin (devilish) and a wink (suggestive).

For the first time since she’d arrived, Fairhrim looked at Osric—really looked at him, you know, undistracted by onions and violent bits of paper. But it wasn’t the smile or the wink that captivated her. Her eyes travelled up his cloak, carefully devoid of emblems or marks. They moved to the heavy signet ring on his right hand and lingered on his black gloves.

Now she grew suspicious. Now she realised something was amiss.

“Can I count on you?” asked Osric, accompanied by a raised eyebrow (sportive).

Fairhrim’s expression turned inhospitable. Osric decided not to further fatigue his eyebrows; there would be no more seductive sallies here. Her type was, evidently, not dark and dangerous. He knew a lost cause when he saw one, and Aurienne Fairhrim was a lost cause.

“Right,” said Osric, slapping his knees. “On to plan B.”

“Plan B?” asked Fairhrim.

“I’ve heard that your Order is seeking funding,” said Osric. “I may have a contribution to offer.”

“Oh? You’ll have to speak with Lambert, two floors down. He heads Charity and Donations.”

“I’m specifically interested in supporting your Order’s work on Platt’s Pox.”