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Xanthe’s mouth disappeared upon itself as she sucked at her gums. With a brisk gesture, she threw the letters into the fire. “I am two hundred years old, Aurienne. I think my patience is simply wearing thin.”

Aurienne watched Xanthe’s anger curl and burn in the hearth. She remembered the squeeze of the little girl’s hand, and thought of the monarchs in their castles, with their feasts and their dances and their precious children well isolated from the Pox, and part of her wished Xanthe had sent the letters, warts and all.

There was one positive inthe days to come, which was that, among all the stressors in Aurienne’s life, the one called Osric Mordaunt would be absent for an entire month. May shimmered beautifully before her: four weeks until the Blædnes moon, four weeks ofnormalcy, four weeks without interactions with the murderous delinquent.

But, obviously, Fate had other plans. Fate, mused Aurienne, liked to take the piss.

This contribution to modern philosophy went unvoiced because Aurienne was trapped behind her desk by Quincey, going through the correspondence pile.

Mordaunt’s deofol tingled at her tacn. Fate had given her five days of reprieve before he wedged himself back into her life. Fria save her. Mordaunt’s money did a lot of good at Swanstone; he, however, was of little added value to Aurienne, except in the sense that he caused her to secrete additional cortisol.

As his deofol tingled at her palm for permission to materialise, Aurienne found herself unable to decide what was more harrowing: the prospect of dealing with the Fyren, or Quincey and the Administrative Faff.

This was the price—the curse—of being the Best. Everyone wanted a bit of you.

Aurienne ignored the deofol’s request. She didn’t owe the Fyren immediate availability. And if it annoyed him to wait, all the better.

Poor Quincey, familiar with Aurienne’s distaste for Dreaded Admin, was doing a rapid-fire questioning session. Aurienne was asked to join a miscellany of Committees, Working Groups, and Task Forces, develop curricula for an assortment of universities, assess potential Haelan apprentices, and devote more time to community clinics.

The tingle in Aurienne’s tacn disappeared. Mordaunt’s deofol had retreated, probably back to its master to report its failure.

“Two referrals for consideration,” said Quincey, placing letters in front of Aurienne. “The first, a compression injury resulting in damaged seith channels. The other I think you’ll like—seith haemorrhages. The patient is an Ingenaut; she’s starting fires every time she stands next to an engine.”

“Ask Whitman if he’d take on the compression injury,” said Aurienne. “I’ll take the haemorrhage case—she sounds like a good candidate for the micro-occlusion trial. Have her transferred to my ward here, though. I’m not wasting time with waystones.”

Quincey, pleased that he had guessed correctly, made a note, and proceeded to the next item. “We’ve also received this.” He handed Aurienne a memo. “Every Haelan has been asked to continue to give fifteen hours a week to the Pox ward, given the current crisis. The Heads thank you for your understanding in these challenging times.”

Aurienne took the memo, grateful to have been reminded about the challenging times. She might’ve forgotten about them otherwise.

“Finally, these beasts have been clamouring for your attention.” Quincey passed Aurienne a squirming wodge of charts pinned together with vascular clips. “That’s me done. You’ll tell me if I can do anything to be of help?”

“I will,” said Aurienne. “Thank you, Quincey. You’re the only reason I haven’t quit everything and gone into exile.”

Quincey blushed. He had a desperate sort of crush on Aurienne, which he occasionally exhibited by waffling about inane things, which he now, to her chagrin, began to do. He propped himself against her desk in what was probably intended as a debonair lean, and discussed his Friday-night plans, which involved a rhubarb festival and related turf wars.

Aurienne’s tacn prickled again; Mordaunt’s deofol was back for another attempt. Mordaunt was the lowest form of life, but even the most inutile protozoa was occasionally useful, and so, too, was the Fyren.

“I’ve got a deofol coming in,” said Aurienne. She waved Quincey out. “Good luck with the—the rhubarb mafia. Cartel. Would you shut the door behind you?”

Quincey made his bows and exited. He tried to close the door behind him. Aurienne heard his sputtered objections—“So sorry, you can’t go in, she’s got a deofol on the way, excuse me, sorry, didn’t you hearme?”—then some general sounds of belligerence, and then the Director of Trauma and Acute Care barged in, accompanied by the Haelan Order’s top virologist.

Cath’s shaved head contrasted sharply with Élodie’s exuberance of flaxen curls. It was one of their many contrapositions; Cath loved graveyards and amputations and boxing, while Élodie liked the piano, obscure diseases, and pressing flowers in books. They were perfect for each other.

“Aurienne won’t mind; it’s just us,” said Cath to Quincey with kind reassurance, as though she hadn’t just manhandled him into submission. To Aurienne she said, “We’ve brought snacks.”

Élodie, looking drawn and pale, followed Cath in, and laid herself on the floor.

“What are you doing?” asked Aurienne.

Élodie, in her soft French accent, answered, “Coping.”

This seemed an excellent mechanism to Aurienne, who abandoned her chair to lay herself beside Élodie, her dress splayed in a neat semicircle. There was, indeed, much to cope with.

Cath joined them on the floor, sitting cross-legged among her snacks (pretzels, cheese cubes, grapes, a large tumbler of tea). She hand-fed Aurienne and Élodie where they lay and called them the most beautiful corpses; they had shrouds and everything.

Haelan could choose how they wore their whites. Aurienne, favouring structure and femininity, tended towards the Order’s traditional dresses. Cath’s whites today took the form of high-waisted trousers and a long, fitted frock coat, gorgeously cut, which had the effect of making everyone around her look as though they were wearing sacks. Aurienne made a note to visit the Order’s robe makers and investigate this option.

All their silver epaulettes, however, were identical; Aurienne, Cath, and Élodie had each earned their tacn at the same time, and each therefore bore ten lines, denoting their ten years as Haelan.