15
OSRIC GETS ON FAIRHRIM’S LAST NERVE
Osric
t had never been part of the plan, this negotiation business, this new roundI of bargaining, this bit of coercion on black moor turned silver sea. It hadn’t been part of the plan to reach with haggard desperation for the only hands that could heal him, to be beholden to a too-bright Haelan, to stand bare souled before her in the shadow of a waystone and, there, bend to her will.
“I’ll do it.”
Where was his war now? He ought to be back in the skirmish, not in this suspension between war and peace.
It sickened him that he waited for her answer with bated breath, counted time by doomed heartbeats until she said, “All right.” He hated the relief he felt, the gratitude, and hated most of all the swell of admiration for her bursting in his chest.
She was the only one who could save him from the chirurgeon’s butchery. He had to admire her. She was the only one with the expertise, with the control. He had no choice but to admire her. She was the only one who could even make an attempt to cure his disease. How could he not admire her? He liked rare things. He cherished the exceptional.
Fairhrim softened when he breathed, “Thank you.”
Osric stood too long in that silver sea, holding her hand up as though he were about to kiss it. It occurred to him, madly, that he could pull Fairhrim in and crush her to him. It would be so easy. To what end? To what gain? He did not know. The gap must remain. The threshold must not be crossed. That was what they were doomed to: standing upon a threshold. On the verge and only ever on the verge. An almost. He was what he was; she was what she
was.
She would never cross over.
Fog-laden air dewed upon Fairhrim’s throat, her forehead, her cheek, and netted her with a strange light. She stood between Osric and darkness immeasurable—not only the void of the night sky but the void of death.
Her eyes were wide and gentle. Osric fell into them as one falls into deep
waters.
She said, “We can help each other.”
He said, “I know.”
They slipped a bit over the boundary between enmity and partnership
then, into a new place of uncertainty.
She said, “We don’t have to like it.”
Osric made no answer. He already liked it. He hated that he liked it.
Her hand in his grew restive. He had held it too long. She pulled it from his grasp and was gone.
He hated that he had come to the waystone whole but left it having lost a piece of himself in two star-brilliant eyes.
NONE OF IT MATTERED. OSRIC convinced himself of this the next day, when things were less moon touched. It didn’t matter that—what?—he had watched Fairhrim wander barefoot and seen a pretty ankle in the moonlight?
What cared he about pretty ankles?
Nothing had ever mattered less.
He must take care not to conflate her with what he needed from her. They were different things. He had a desperate need for her healing, not her.
What mattered, really, was that, with this embolus business, Fairhrim had him by the balls. (And why, pray, couldn’t it have been someone gentle?
Why couldn’t it have been someone who’d fondle them while they were at it?
Why did it have to be Fairhrim and her iron fist?) As promised, Fairhrim sent her deofol a few days later, with instructions in preparation for the next full moon. After the usual friendly exchange— Osric threatened to turn the deofol into a toilet brush; the deofol advised him that his chin looked like a testicle—Osric received directions to a clinic in the village of Mortehoe, in Dumnonia.
The signs for the clinic informed him that he was suffering from torn
nipples.
Fairhrim thought she was funny.
Osric knocked upon the clinic door, intent on advising Fairhrim that she would soon join the other morte hoes in Mortehoe if she wasn’t careful.
He knew that something was wrong when Fairhrim opened the clinic door with a polite “Welcome—do come in” instead of an insult.
On her face was a fixed, triangular smile.
Osric was about to enquire about the mouth trigonometry, but Fairhrim pointed at her breast. Osric stared at her breast. He saw no cause for concern.
Indeed, he had seen it almost bare before and thought it lovely. Fairhrim pointed at her breast more vigorously, until Osric understood that she was indicating something behind her and trying to be discreet about it.
He looked behind her, where a curtain cut the room in half. Two hairy legs protruded from behind the curtain.
Osric raised an eyebrow at Fairhrim. The eyebrow enquired whether he should proceed to kill this person.
Fairhrim did not immediately shake her head no, which was something of a surprise.
Still in that polite voice, she bid Osric to have a seat in the waiting area.
With an expression of professionalism frozen on her face, she disappeared behind the curtain to take care of her patient.
“What do you think of my man udders?” came the patient’s voice.
Osric knew that voice. There was only one man in the world with that voice.
“Please stop flexing your pectorals” was Fairhrim’s reply. “You’ll make it worse.”
Osric leapt to his feet and swept the curtain aside.
“What in Hel’s name are you doing here?” he asked.
Leofric—because of course it was Leofric—looked up. “Osric? What are you doing here?”
Leofric was seated in a chair, partially draped in one of the puce gowns.
He had a bloody nipple.
“Excuse me,” said Fairhrim, snatching the curtain from Osric’s hand.
“This needs to remain closed.”
Leofric was delighted. “It’s all right. He’s my best friend.”
“We aren’t friends,” said Osric.
“What happened to your nips, Os?” asked Leofric. “Go on—show us.
Don’t be shy.”
“I’ll wait my turn,” said Osric, and he returned stiffly to his seat, from whence he proceeded to stare down Leofric, and indulge in some fantasising about his death, funeral rites, obituary, etc.
“Right stroke of luck, finding this clinic,” said Leofric to Osric over Fairhrim’s shoulder. “I was just passing through when I saw the sign. I got too kinky last night.”
Fairhrim, even more rigid about the spine than usual, said, “I’ve got to fetch a few supplies,” and disappeared into a back room.
“Nice girl, this Haelan,” said Leofric in a whisper. “Bit uptight, though.
She could do a Kegel and snap your cock off. But she’s warmed up to me.
They all do, eventually. Charmed her with my wits and tits. She’s a looker.”
“Hadn’t noticed,” said Osric. He was distracted by an unasked for vision of Fairhrim on his cock, doing Kegels.
“D’you think I should ask her about my droopy ball?” asked Leofric.
“This is a clinic for torn nipples.”
“How’d you tear yours?”
“Polo.”
“Posh cunt,” said Leofric. “I’ll ask the Haelan if she’s hosting a bollocks clinic. Hey—what do you think she’d do if she found out we’re Fyren?
Should we show her our tācn when we leave? That’d be a laugh, wouldn’t it?”
Leofric held up his palm, across which he’d had the Leofricish foresight to place a bandage. As though any Haelan worth her seith wouldn’t spot it and demand to see what was underneath.
Fortunately, this particular Haelan knew exactly what Leofric was, and had turned a blind eye to his cunning stratagem.
“Don’t do it,” said Osric. “She’d report it and cause trouble between our Orders.”
“When did you become such a bore bag?” Leofric flopped back in his chair and looked despondent. After a bit of twitching, he rose and wandered towards the worktop, where he found a large test tube, which he held towards Osric. “Pop this in your bum.”
Fairhrim returned to instil law and order. Leofric’s suggestion did not please her.
“Put that down,” said Fairhrim, in tones that would galvanise a mollusc
into action.
Leofric jumped and did as he was bid.
“Sit,” said Fairhrim.
The single, crisp syllable was delivered with such command that Leofric fell wordlessly back into the chair.
Fairhrim returned the test tube to its rack. Leofric beamed a tentative smile her way. It was not returned. Instead, Fairhrim made him hiss as, with a certain vindictiveness, she applied foam-soaked dressings to his nipple.
“What the fuck is that stuff?” asked Leofric.
“Hlutoform,” said Fairhrim.
“It’s used all over the Tīendoms,” said Osric, knowledgeably.
“Your mum’s used all over the Tīendoms,” said Leofric.
Osric twirled a knife.
There was the flash of Fairhrim’s tācn and a shiver in the air as she pushed her seith into the wounded nipple. Fairhrim’s expression was impassive, but Osric knew her enough to read the pinch of her nostrils: how dare yet another idiot Fyren make her waste her seith?
“D’you have any plans to host a clinic on bollocks?” asked Leofric.
Fairhrim, bless her, was a champion of composure. “No. You should go to a physicker.” She placed a bandage over Leofric’s nipple. “Done. The skin is still new, so mind you don’t mess about with clamps again for at least a week. And for Woden’s sake, sterilise them before use. This bottle contains a course of antibiotics; take one a day until they’ve run out.”
Leofric took the pills. “Will these give me an erection lasting longer than
four hours?”
“No.”
“Will you give my nip a little kissie to make sure it’s all better?”
Fairhrim’s tolerance for nonsense was never high to begin with, but it hit a new low. The ambient air temperature dropped as she stared at Leofric.
Leofric twitched his pec at her in a hopeful sort of way.
“Leave, or I’ll undo it all, and remove your other nipple besides,” said
Fairhrim.
“Ouch,” said Leofric.
Fairhrim, in a flurry of efficient gestures, gathered up Leofric’s clothes and pushed them into his arms. “Be quick about dressing. I’ve got another patient to attend to. Goodbye.”
Fairhrim strode into the back room again. Osric saw her summon her deofol, who materialised and listened attentively as she went through cabinets and made a list of supplies to replenish the clinic’s inventory: “We’re low on dextrose gel, indigestion tablets, suture packs, swab sticks…”
“That sphygmomanometer looks positively ancient,” said the deofol.
“Should we ask to have it replaced?”
“Add it to the list, though I doubt they’ll approve,” said Fairhrim. “And, while we’re dreaming, a new trolley—this one’s only got one functioning wheel.”
The deofol’s pointy head turned towards Osric and Leofric. “I see we’ve gathered all the contraception in one place.”
Fairhrim turned her cold gaze towards them, too. “I do like to be organised.”
Osric glowered. Leofric was too stupid to be offended. Fairhrim shut the door with a snap.
“I like her,” said Leofric as he dressed.
“I don’t think it’s mutual,” said Osric.
“No? I feel like we’ve got a connection,” said Leofric. “Anyway, I don’t care what you think—you know nothing about finer feelings.”
“And I suppose you’re an expert?”
“More than you,” said Leofric. “I’ve never met a Haelan before. She wasn’t that bad, honestly, was she? Bit prim, but that’s to be expected; they’ve all got bargepoles up their arses. She didn’t judge me in the slightest for the nipple clamps. Shall I wait for you? D’you want me to hold your hand
while she diddles your nipple?”
“No.”
“All right. I’m off, then. Got a barrister to murder.” Leofric turned to the back-room door, cupped his hands around his mouth, and called, “Farewell,
sweet Haelan; we could never be.”
Fairhrim did not respond.
Leofric left.
Fairhrim emerged from the back room looking as aghast as her features permitted. “Well, that was traumatising.”
“Obscene,” said her deofol, before disappearing on his errand in a puff of white.
“Good of you not to judge him for the nipple clamps,” said Osric.
“With an entire bargepole up my arse, I haven’t any room left for judgement,” said Fairhrim. “I nearly screamed when I saw him. All I could think about was sea urchins.”
She led Osric to the worktop in the back room, upon which lay a messy heap of documents and a half-folded map, looking as though it had been hastily taken down.
“I didn’t want Leofric to see,” said Fairhrim. With precise, though irritated, gestures, she put her documents back into stacks. “Tore it all down while he was disrobing. Hold this up.”
Osric pushed the corners of the map against the wall. Fairhrim ducked under his arms to pin it back up, along with her data tables, a drawing of the Monafyll Stone, and her notes from Widdershins.
As it had last time, her casual nearness surprised him. Those who approached a known Fyren without an iota of fear numbered zero.
Well—now they numbered one. What a pity it had to be Fairhrim.
These musings were interrupted by a sudden, “Ouch—ouch!”
Fairhrim had bumped her bun against him. The silver curette that held her hair in place caught the knife holster at his forearm. Osric attempted to disentangle the mess, but gloved fingers were not adequate for so delicate a task, and all he managed to do was hook more fine hairs around a buckle.
Fairhrim gave him two seconds of fumbling before swatting his hand away and doing it herself.
By the time she had got untangled, three hairs had snapped, and fluttered thereafter from Osric’s holster like cobwebs, or torn lace, or a secret favour from a Lady.
“Could you stop bobbing about and getting your hair caught everywhere?” asked Osric.
Fairhrim pinned her bun back into place. “Perhaps if you weren’t armed to the teeth at all times one could pass you without getting scalped.”
And her deofol had called Osric prone to exaggeration.
Fairhrim, her hair in order, turned her attention to the map. “Right. Where was I?”
“You’ve transposed the ley lines onto this,” said Osric.
“Yes—far easier than faffing about with two maps. I’ve also replaced my pins.”
Osric had indeed just noticed that the map was dotted with pink hearts.
“Erm…are those…?”
“Cerys’ nipple pasties, yes,” said Fairhrim, wiggling a sheet of nipple pasties. “I like the adhesive; it doesn’t damage the map.”
Fairhrim had placed the hearts upon areas that they had visited, but also new ones: a place in Somerset, a place in Dyfed, and the empty sea off the coast of the South Downs, where the Hedgewitches had been. (“Those five ley lines,” tutted Fairhrim with respect to this last one. “I fancy going back and trying again. But only when we’ve exhausted our other options.”) “The June lunation takes place in three weeks.” Fairhrim tapped at the heart in Somerset. “My proposal for our next attempt is here. I was able to conclusively locate a dozen stories in this specific area, all taking place during the Begbéam moon.”
“That’s at a crossing of three ley lines,” said Osric. “Promising.”
“Yes—and at the intersection of two watercourses, which matches your precious Widdershins’ translation for June.” Fairhrim pointed to her notes, which duly indicated running waters cross.
“But, most interesting of all, if we go precisely here”—the tip of Fairhrim’s finger stopped at the heart—“we’ll add a labyrinth to the mix.”
“What’s so good about a labyrinth?”
“They’re another sort of in-between place. Sacred paths, pilgrim paths— ways to reach a new state of consciousness, ways to approach the Otherworld. Disorienting. Thin.” An unimpressed grimace pulled at Fairhrim’s lips. “A recurring theme is the importance of trusting the path, even though it seems to be meandering without purpose.”
“A bit on the nose for what we’re doing at the moment,” said Osric.
“Isn’t it? I hate it.”
“So, we’re going to Avalon?”
“Yes. The Færwundor at Glastonbury Tor, to be specific.”
“Ah,” said Osric, significantly.
“What’s wrong?”
“That’s a Druid stronghold.”
“And?”
“Erm—I might have a history.”
Fairhrim’s look was full of suspicion. “A history?”
“Might’ve offed their chief Seer a while ago,” said Osric, as innocently as one could when confessing to a murder.
“You what? Why?”
“Money,” said Osric.
Fairhrim pressed fingers to her temples. “Mordaunt.” (She said his name like it was a swear word and he rather liked it.) “Bit disappointed he didn’t See me coming, to be honest,” said Osric.
Fairhrim was as impervious to his wit as she was to his attractions, and remained flinty. “Why,” she breathed, “must you complicate everything?”
“Let’s try any of these other places,” said Osric, gesturing at the hearts on the map. “A place where I won’t be subject to the Threefold Death.”
“The what?”
“The Druids’ Threefold Death. Impalement, stoning, drowning. You haven’t heard of it? You need to get out more. Here—what about this place —?” Osric, pointing at the map, noticed that he was talking to himself and turned around. “Where are you?”
“At my wits’ end,” came Fairhrim’s response.
She returned with her satchel, from which she pulled out translations marked with her notes. “Look. Multiple, specific references to the Begbéam moon, all within a half-mile radius of this area.”
Osric flipped through the documents. When the stories were good enough to provide them, Fairhrim had identified their time markers, which, indeed, mentioned the Begbéam moon in various forms—the moon at the greening of the dún-heather, the full moon at the month of the strawberry harvest, the sixth full moon, the dogwood bloom-time… “You’ve bollocksed my idea in a spectacular fashion,” said Fairhrim. She turned to the map. Though she stood as straight as ever, there was something disheartened in her stance—in the crossing of her arms, in the downward tilt
of her chin.
“Let’s do it,” said Osric.
Fairhrim threw him a black look. “You’re wanted under Druidic law. We can’t go traipsing about the Færwundor. I had this all worked out, you know.
I was going to ask Xanthe to request a visit of their enclave for a research project. You were to pose as my assistant. But now, the moment they see you —”
“I’m going to introduce you to the concept of being naughty,” said Osric.
Fairhrim made a swift gesture of repudiation. “I’m not breaking into the Færwundor. The Druids are allies to the Haelan.”
“You’re not breaking in,” said Osric.
“Good.”
“I am.”
“I’m not trespassing into Druid territory with the man who murdered their chief Seer,” said Fairhrim. “We’ll be caught.”
“You know so very little of my capabilities,” sniffed Osric. “If we’re caught—which we won’t be—they’ll go after me. You flash your tācn and tell them I forced you to do my bidding. They won’t hurt a Haelan.”
She refused.
Osric said that she was Not Pliable.
She agreed.
Fairhrim turned away and began a sort of frustration-driven tidying of the worktop. “Why did you have to throw such a massive bloody wrench in the works? This should’ve been a simple moonlit stroll. The data on this particular location at this specific moon is the most compelling yet.”
“I’m being solutions oriented,” said Osric. “You should try it.”
“Solutions oriented?” repeated Fairhrim. She turned to him, straight and tall. In her hand was a box of scalpel blades. Her gaze flicked from Osric to the blades and back again, and she looked very solutions oriented indeed, assuming that the solution was stuffing scalpel blades down Osric’s throat.
He wondered if she mightn’t have Valkyrie blood, somewhere up the lines.
She muttered, “Harm to none,” through clenched teeth.
“There’s another complication, while we’re on the subject,” said Osric.
“Wellesley.”
“What about him?”
“Fuckery is what,” said Osric.
“Elaborate.”
“Things are fraught between the queens of Kent and Wessex. Both sides have been shoring up their fortresses. Wellesley’s got five hundred men
assembled at Wellesley Keep—it’s essentially a garrison.”
“I thought you were very good at what you do,” said Fairhrim. “Can’t you shadow-walk past them?”
“Normally, yes. But I had a little recce and discovered that Wellesley has put up anti-Fyren measures.”
“What on earth is an anti-Fyren measure?”
“He’s flooded his entire Keep with light,” said Osric. “Can’t shadow-
walk if there aren’t any shadows.”
“Why? What’s he hiding?”
“Don’t know. Could be information. Could be paranoia. Could be he’s afraid that Kent will hire a Fyren to go after him. The cost of lighting up an entire Keep and its surrounds for weeks on end is exorbitant. He’s an idiot for doing it; the message he’s sending out is that there is something very worthwhile in there.”
“Could it be on purpose?” asked Fairhrim. “Strategic? To draw attention away from something else?”
“If it’s a ruse de guerre, it’s risky, expensive, and stupid.”
“Right. So what are you going to do?”
“Not infiltrate Wellesley Keep, given that I don’t wish to be dry fucked in
the arse by five hundred spears.”
“Be solutions oriented,” said Fairhrim.
That was the thing with Fairhrim: you had to choose your words wisely, because she would catch them and fling them back at you, sharper than before. (It occurred to him, by the by, that if a man liked things sharp and pretty, Fairhrim was the sort of woman the man might begin to fancy if he wasn’t careful. However: the man mustn’t be stupid. That way lay folly.) “This is no longer a simple infiltration,” said Osric. “I can’t shadow-walk in.”
Fairhrim studied him, then said, with immense significance: “Hmm.”
“What?”
“Your hubris has given way to reason; it’s refreshing.”
“Delighted that my inadequacy pleases you.”
“Knowing your limits isn’t inadequacy,” said Fairhrim. “Xanthe will forbid me from helping you with another embolus, though. Wellesley was your only bargaining chip.”
“I’ve had nothing but the usual fluctuations since the last blockage,” said Osric. “I’m convinced that your statistics were nothing but scare tactics—
scare-tistics, if you will—”
“I won’t.”
“—but I am, nevertheless, choosing to put my trust in you.”
“Don’t. I don’t know where it’s been.”
“Cruel. I was being vulnerable.”
Fairhrim held up a warding hand. “You may keep that to yourself, too.”
“How can you be so mean to your own patient?”
“You aren’t a patient.”
“You’re caring for me.”
“I’m caring for you, not about you.”
“Ouch.”
Fairhrim, pitiless, continued her interrogation. “How is your torpraxia?”
“Worse. Slammed a jug of lye on my foot and didn’t even feel it.”
“A jug of lye?”
“I was dissolving a body.”
“Dissolving a body.” Fairhrim made a tight, pained nod. “Of course.” She produced no further comment on the matter, and said instead, “I’ll speak to Xanthe.”
“Are you Xanthe’s pet? Must everything be run by her?”
“It was her call to wrap me up in this debacle, so she gets to share the burden of the decision-making, yes.”
“And what are we doing about the full moon?” asked Osric.
“We’ve got weeks to work it out. I’ll find an alternative location. I’m not breaking into the Færwundor with the man who murdered their Seer. Why would you do that? The Druids are harmless.”
“It was an offer I couldn’t refuse.”
“Monster.”
“The pay funded a large part of your Pox cure, by the by,” said Osric.
“It’s not a cure; it’s an immunisation,” said Fairhrim. “And that doesn’t make it right. You could’ve earned the money through any number of pursuits. But I’m wasting my breath.” With the air of one Moving On, she asked, “Shall we check on your progress while you’re here?”
“Fine.”
“You know the routine,” said Fairhrim.
“Denude myself, et cetera.”
“The things are in that cupboard,” said Fairhrim, leaving the room.
This time, Osric made certain to note precisely which cupboard was indicated by Fairhrim. Within it he found not puce gowns but large flannel pantaloons of the same colour. He arranged a pair at a daring angle at his pelvis.
Then he noticed that the pantaloons had a gaping fly and were missing a button, thus leaving the nudest part of the denudation exposed.
He settled on using Fairhrim’s ugly fuchsia notebook as a merkin.
Fairhrim, preceded by the rattle of the Franklin diffractor, reentered the room. At first she noticed only the pantaloons, and asked, “Are you going scalloping?”
Then she saw her notebook and snatched it away.
“My merkin,” gasped Osric.
“Close your fly.”
“There’s no button,” said Osric. “Avert your eyes, lest your gaze grow lustful.”
Fairhrim, superbly unbothered by the cock dangling before her —offensively unbothered, if Osric was honest—produced an overlarge safety pin. “Here. This is a clinic, not a pissoir.”
Osric pinned himself shut with great délicatesse. “There aren’t buttons on any of these pantaloons, so take a note of that in our merkin.”
Fairhrim aimed the diffractor at Osric’s chest and latched its tentacles upon his person with, it seemed to him, unnecessary force.
Her disinterest in any of the goings-on in his fly crushed Osric to a spiritual pulp. Not that he wanted Fairhrim to look at his cock, necessarily; it was just the principle of the thing. She wasn’t charmed by him; she wasn’t
frightened by him; she wasn’t seduced or intrigued by or remotely curious about anything to do with him. Who did she think she was? Her utter lack of
interest killed him.
He hated her.
Fairhrim snapped at him to sit up, which Osric did, insofar as pulp can sit up. She faffed about with various silver instruments against the projected figure on the wall, measuring seith channels, intact and rotted, against her bright markers. Once again, she pulled out an irascible, twitching chart (Pt: U. Ganglion), which calmed down as she recorded her measurements. And once again, she ran a finger down Osric’s appendages (barring the most interesting one) and noted where his numbness began and ceased.
Her brows drawn into a frown, Fairhrim studied the documents before her. She turned off the diffractor, wiped the tentacles with a fresh dose of hlutoform, reattached them, and turned the machine back on. Her silver instruments came in for an encore of their clicking, snapping dance across the projected figure. Fairhrim passed her finger down Osric again, asking if he was quite certain that the numbness stopped just there, and not farther.
“Yes,” said Osric. “Why?”
“Mind you,” said Fairhrim to herself, “it’s hardly been a fortnight since
our last measurements.”
“What’s the matter?”
“And we’re still well within normal parameters—though not within your
normal parameters.”
“What parameters? What is it?”
Fairhrim, absorbed in the numbers before her, said nothing. She flew back to the diffractor, tapped at gauges, muttered that it was all in order, and yet…She returned to her notes, disarrayed, unquiet; her calmness was fragile.
She pressed fingertips to her lips. Her eyes ran over and over the columns again and again.
Hope, unchecked, swelled in Osric’s breast. “Fairhrim, what is it?”
Once again, Osric measured time by doomed heartbeats until Fairhrim parted her lips. Her gaze, vivid with curiosity, met his. She took a breath. A hundred years passed. He waited, utterly at her mercy. He wished to kneel.
He wished to gather her skirts into his fists and prostrate himself at her feet.
Please, please, please.
“Your degeneration has, however briefly, slowed,” said Fairhrim. “At least, as measured with these instruments. I hesitate to say stopped, of course —though, technically, that would be correct. Come here—let me show you.”
She divested Osric of the diffractor’s sticky tentacles and waved him towards the worktop; he leaned over her shoulder; she ran through the numbers and gave explanations; she smelled of hlutoform and soap; the hope beat wild and thunderous in his chest; she told him to withhold celebrating, as there were many other factors to be accounted for; the numbers and columns swam into one another; she made intelligent observations; he listened and took in strictly none of it, because he was back on the silver sea, enraptured by the woman with the star-bright eyes, the only one who could heal him, the one who was saving his life.
“You and your brains,” he breathed. “You and all your pretty edges.
You’re doing it.”
“I’ve just told you, there could be any number of explanations—”
“But this is good?”
“Yes. It’s also medically impossible. But it’s good.”
Again Osric was breathless and full hearted and swelling with admiration.
Fairhrim’s bare hand, chapped and dry, lay on the table next to his gloved
one.
He brought it to his lips.
Fairhrim was startled, for once, into a gasp.
Osric pressed a gallant kiss into the back of her hand. He should have stopped there, but, like a besotted fool, he kissed smaller, revering ones across her knuckles.
He might have carried on kissing her to her wrist, upon her forearm, past her shoulder, up her neck. He very well could have. He, feeling her cool skin under his warm mouth, quite wanted to. In moments like this, one wished to worship a little.
Her wide, shocked eyes reminded him that her hand wasn’t, and would never be, his to kiss.
“Sorry.” Osric dropped her hand. “I mustn’t sully you with my kisses.”
Fairhrim brought her hand up and curled it gently against her collarbone.
“A crime of passion. You’re forgiven.”
“You’re doing it. I’m telling you, you’re doing it.”
On her face, a smile dawned, but did not break.
