Page 7

Again Fairhrim’s eyes sought Osric’s gloves. “Your interest delights me, of course, but, as I said, Charity and Donations would be your starting point. Paediatric diseases aren’t my area anyway.” Her gaze flicked towards the door. “Howdidyou get in here? Where is Quincey?”

“Who?”

“My assistant.”

“Assistant? A tripping hazard, rather,” said Osric. “He’s napping.”

Fairhrim edged one hand to the left of her desk, which informed Osric that there was an alarm mechanism there.

“Don’t press the panic button, Haelan Fairhrim,” said Osric. “I’d rather things didn’t get messy.”

Fairhrim stilled. “That sounds like a threat.”

“It is.”

“Who are you and what do you want?”

“We could’ve got to this point much sooner if you hadn’t mucked about with the onions,” said Osric. Also if he hadn’t mucked about with attempting to flirt with her, but he preferred not to take responsibility for things. “As I said, I want healing.”

“What you’ll get is a broken coccyx, when the Wardens throw you out,” said Fairhrim.

Now that she had confirmed that something was amiss, Fairhrim did not appear frightened. She appeared, on the contrary, freshly annoyed. Did all of the Haelan have such poor self-preservation instincts, or was she particularly dim?

“Do you think I heal every impostor undertaker who wanders into my office?” asked Fairhrim.

“You will with this one,” said Osric. “I’m going to help you cure your precious Pox.”

The aggressive chart on Fairhrim’s desk twitched back to life. She slapped it. “We’re not curing it. We’re looking to immunise against it.”

“Right. Whatever. I wish to buy your services—and your discretion—with a donation. I know your Order’s negotiations with the usual funding agencies haven’t been successful.”

Fairhrim pressed her lips into a narrow line. “They haven’t been successful to date. We’ve only just begun to make submissions to the various bodies. These things take time.”

Osric waved away her technicalities. “Wouldn’t you rather have the money now? Get started? Cure the guttersnipes?”

“Immunise, not cure,” said Fairhrim. “And I’m not a physicker-for-hire. There are hundreds of those in London alone. Why don’t you go to one of them with your gold?”

“I’ve been told I need your particular expertise.”

“By who?”

“Physickers-for-hire.”

“Which ones?”

“Fordyce and Shuttleworth.”

Fairhrim gave a snobbish little tut. “That’s the best money can buy, is it?”

“They came highly recommended.”

“And what have they diagnosed you with?” asked Fairhrim. Her eyes swept over Osric in a once-over, as though she might work out his affliction by sight alone.

“That’s for you to discover,” said Osric. “Do you want the funding or not? It’s a simple proposal. You heal me. You tell nobody. I’m offering twenty million.”

Fairhrim’s gaze settled on Osric’s gloves. “Show me your palms.”

“No,” said Osric, given that she would find the Fyren tacn on his left palm objectionable.