18
AURIENNE THE CRIMINAL
Aurienne
fter two hours of work, Aurienne, lightheaded from seith depletion, herA hands a mess of livid wounds, her neck aching, her favourite dress a blood-splattered disaster, sat back, satisfied; Mordaunt was stable.
Cíele had told her what he’d seen and thus converted her frightened anger into confused gratitude.
Her deofol hovered above Mordaunt’s face. His tail swept about restlessly. “I haven’t got to get Cath?”
“He’ll be fine,” said Aurienne. “By some miracle, the blade avoided his intestines.”
Mordaunt had been lucky—and therefore she’d been lucky. The complications of a bowel perforation would’ve been far beyond her scope of practice; if he’d presented with a perforated viscus, she wouldn’t have had a choice but to call in Cath.
Cíele ceased his hovering and perched his near-imperceptible weight upon Aurienne’s shoulder. “Thank Frīa. Would’ve been rather difficult to explain to Cath why you’ve got a wounded Fyren in your childhood bedroom.”
“I’m not entirely sure I can explain to myself why I’ve got a wounded Fyren in my childhood bedroom,” said Aurienne.
“Everything happened so fast. He said something about a Fyren headed for Swanstone. He thought you were there. And, given that he didn’t know what the other Fyren wanted, he killed him. The Fyren—our Fyren, I mean— didn’t even realise he’d been stabbed.”
Aurienne contemplated the man, drifting somewhere between unconsciousness and true sleep, lying on her bed. His face was ashen, his hair —she had rinsed off the custard—soaked with new sweat. His left hand, in a blood-crusted glove, lay on his chest. Aurienne had left the glove on, lest any
visitors spot his tācn.
“This is mad,” said Aurienne.
“I know,” said Cíele.
“He’s mad. He killed one of his own Order.”
“And roasted the corpse,” added Cíele.
“I find him far more disturbing when he’s quiet.”
“D’you think it matters to him? Having murdered one of his own?” asked Cíele. “Do you think it’s normal for Fyren to kill each other?”
“I don’t know how far this strays beyond whatever their code is—if they’ve even got one.”
Cíele fixed Mordaunt with a searching look. Aurienne did the same.
The deofol voiced the question Aurienne hadn’t dared ask: “Should we have let him die?”
The answer came more readily than the question had. “I couldn’t have.”
“I saw,” said Cíele. “You saved him before you even knew what he’d
done.”
“Seeing him so hurt was—it was—”
Aurienne stopped trying to describe it, because words were insufficient.
No utterance could capture the fear she’d felt when she had pulled off his blood-soaked cloak and understood how close he was to Hel’s final embrace.
The touch of his fevered hands had no grammar; there was no orthography to the pain of her heart squeeze.
At the edges of all this emotion lapped, as always, little waves of reason.
She owed him healing only for the seith rot; he was a Fyren; hundreds had
died because of him, and now, because of her, he would go on to kill hundreds more. Had she done Right? Had she done Good?
Cíele’s red eyes were on Aurienne. He sat with all four paws gathered below him, unusually still.
“He’s more important to me than I would wish him to be,” said Aurienne.
“For what it’s worth, I think you’re more important to him than he’d like you to be, too.”
“Important is all right,” said Aurienne. “Important is—justifiable. We’re
valuable to one another.”
“But nothing beyond?”
“Nothing beyond,” said Aurienne. “Beyond would be impossible. He is what he is.”
“He is what he is,” repeated Cíele, with a grave nod.
Aurienne wished that she were satisfied by this conclusion, by this retreat into the safety of definitions, of classifications and structure. Mordaunt was a Fyren. Just a Fyren. But was he just? When a man kills one of his own Order for you, nearly gets himself eviscerated for you, shows up half-dead at your door because of you, and collapses into your arms—is he just?
When Cíele had first explained what he had seen, Aurienne had felt things she hadn’t a name for—or, more honestly, that she didn’t want to name. She did not wish to admire the Fyren, to hold him in regard, or to glow with gratitude at the thought of him. And yet, what massacre might the other Fyren have wrought at Swanstone? How many people had Mordaunt saved?
She knew that Mordaunt had sound, perfectly solipsistic reasons to do what he had done, of course. He was protecting his Means to an End. He hadn’t done it for her so much as for himself. And yet, he had done an act of Good.
A sigh fluttered Cíele’s whiskers. “I’d better go. I’m draining your seith.
Your hands already look like you stuck them into a bin of scalpels and waved them about.”
“Right. I think I’d still like to consult Cath on management and rehab.”
“Is that wise?” asked Cíele. “Won’t she ask questions?”
“She will. I’ll tell her I can’t answer them at the moment. She’s the specialist; I’ve got to make sure I’ve done everything right. He deserves that much. Will you go to her, and ask if I can see her tomorrow? I think she’s in the operating theatre in the morning. I can pop by the pub at lunch.”
“Very well,” said Cíele. He spun in a solemn circle and disappeared.
When he was gone, Aurienne allowed herself to fix Mordaunt’s hair. A living Mordaunt would never permit his hair to be in this state; the mess made him look like he must be dead.
It was the excuse she made for herself, anyway, as she ran her fingertips through silver-white strands.
There was no excuse for brushing a gentle hand along his cheek.
AURIENNE HELD HER CONCERNED FAMILY at bay by telling them that Mr. Hungwell was out of harm’s way, and if they could give her a bit of time alone with him, he would be back on his feet within another day, thank you (this accompanied by a firmly closed door).
What Aurienne really wanted, after this massive seith exertion, was a hot meal, a steaming bath, a massage, and (while she was at it) an orgasm or two, to relax herself into sleep. Instead, she ate cold leftovers in the kitchens and dozed upon an uncomfortable sofa. She regenerated enough seith to fix up the absolute state of her hands and took the waystone early the next morning to the Publish or Perish.
She left Tartiflette with instructions to stand guard outside Mordaunt’s room: no visitors. The man needed rest.
Before meeting up with Cath at the pub, Aurienne stopped at Swanstone for supplies. It was a Saturday, and mercifully quiet in the Centre for Seith Research. Aurienne nevertheless summoned Cíele to stand watch as she slipped into the supply room.
Cíele floated at the door, his tail sweeping back and forth in displeasure.
“We’re stealing. I hope we don’t go to prison. I don’t think I’d do well in
prison.”
“We won’t go to prison for a few cannulae and clamps,” said Aurienne as she stuffed her satchel with those, along with IV tubing, painkilling infusions, antibiotics, and packets of powdered bhreue. “My parents’ first aid kit is, unfortunately, not quite up to par for our needs.”
Also to note: she was now a thief as well as a murderer. Mordaunt really was rubbing off on her.
“What about an infusion stand?” asked Cíele.
“Can’t exactly stuff one into my bag,” said Aurienne. “I’ll work something out at the house—a coatrack or something.”
When she had crammed her pilfered stock into her satchel, Aurienne realised that because she kept impeccable inventory at the Centre, she would also have to modify the books to spare herself and other Haelan interrogations from Quincey when the numbers didn’t add up.
A bit sweaty about the armpits, Aurienne added forgery to her list of crimes.
A sound made her and Cíele jump. It was only Acts of Warranted Brutality, the black kitten that Mordaunt had found at Wellesley Keep. The kitten hated everyone, including Aurienne, except when she was hungry. She crept out from between shelves and mewled her distinctive meow—less of a meow than an eep eep—at Aurienne. Aurienne had nothing to offer and told her to go to the kitchens. Acts of Warranted Brutality turned away in disgust.
“Someone’s coming,” whispered Cíele.
Quincey’s footsteps shuffled along the corridor, preceded by cheerful humming.
Cíele darted out of the supply room to hold him off long enough for Aurienne to close her satchel. She heard Cíele greet Quincey with unusual friendliness (Cíele was, as a rule, not friendly with anyone who wasn’t Aurienne). When she joined the two of them in the corridor, Cíele was feigning a profound interest in Quincey’s marmalade toast.
“Haelan Fairhrim,” said Quincey when Aurienne rounded the corner. “Is something the matter?”
A fair question, given that it was rare for Aurienne to ever be mucking about in the supply room.
Aurienne, unused to being in the wrong, and struggling to recover her self-possession, spoke in a voice approximately four octaves higher than
usual: “No, nothing.”
“Can I help you find something?”
“No, no—I was merely inspecting.”
“An inspection?” asked Quincey. He nearly dropped his toast. “But—but we just conducted an audit. Have you found anything out of order? Anything I can correct?”
“I think the manufacturer recommends that those impregnated gauze pads be kept out of light. I’d move them to one of the drawers.”
Quincey took the misplaced gauze pads personally. He wilted over his marmalade. “Right—of course—thank you.”
“Otherwise, it’s perfect. Well done, you. Enjoy your toast. I’d best crack on; I’m meeting Cath. Goodbye.”
Quincey received the compliment with a blush. Aurienne, her satchel bursting with contraband, strode away with exceptional briskness.
A group of villagers was hanging about outside the Publish or Perish.
They greeted Aurienne with respectful bows. She heard their conversation pick up again after her passage; there had been a Mysterious Incident in the village the night before—loads of screaming and blood, no bodies found, but a peculiar smell of burnt pork had lingered all night.
Aurienne wouldn’t know anything about that.
Neither did Cath, who was sitting in a back corner of the pub, putting away a curry, and blessedly out of earshot of the villagers. She sat with Felicette, the Ingenaut-in-residence who maintained and developed Swanstone’s seith-powered equipment, and occasionally introduced less popular advancements, such as the sentient charts.
The chimes at the door of the Publish or Perish consisted of a dozen stirring rods all tied together. Aurienne’s presence was announced by their metallic clang. She returned waves from the Paeds matron, Breage, and a few nurses and fellow Haelan. She received bows from apprentices swallowing
lunchtime pints and pies, and nods from a few village grannies setting the world to rights over their cups of tea.
The walls and ceiling of the Publish or Perish were plastered with scientific papers produced by Swanstone—accepted papers, rejected papers, papers scribbled all over with notes, first drafts, final editions. Aurienne’s works were there, too, pasted in during celebratory rounds or dejected rejection pints. A few cheeky scholars had even glued in full books, the pages of which fluttered amid the pong of fried fish and onions, and added their own esoteric whiff to the place. The walls of the Publish or Perish were thus always interesting to stare at; even in their most drunken stupors, patrons always Learned Something.
At the counter, Aurienne flagged down old Grette, the publican. Instead of her usual small ale, Aurienne asked for an entire bottle of Rathcroghan’s Fortified Wine, calculated to please Cath.
“You’re going to get absolutely wankered,” said Grette, who fancied herself an oracle as well as a publican.
“I thought you’d be proud of me,” said Aurienne. “You take the piss out of my usual.”
“If I took the piss out of your usual, it wouldn’t have any flavour at all,” said Grette.
She handed over the bottle; Aurienne pondered how much urine she had ingested in her lifetime.
“Here,” said Grette, softening the blow by handing Aurienne a plate of bread-and-butter pudding. “Last piece—have it before it goes stale. On the house.”
“You’re sure you don’t want it yourself?”
“Milk gives me wet shits.”
Grette placed the pudding on a tray, upon which she arranged some deformed glassware in lieu of cups. Her husband was the Haelan Order’s glassmaker; pieces that were flawed or otherwise didn’t reach the quality standards set by Swanstone’s laboratories were put to use in the pub.
Aurienne took her tray and bottle, and approached Cath with her bribe.
Cath kept her head shaved because of her Cost, which caused hair loss.
On days when she had triggered it, she hadn’t any eyebrows, either, and painted them on in various colours. Today, they were an iridescent shade of mauve.
Felicette was observing something under a large, illuminated magnifying glass.
“Felicette has made friends with a fly,” said Cath, drily, to Aurienne.
“Our conceptualisation of sight is pathetically simplistic,” said Felicette.
“They can teach us so much.”
The fly flew off; Felicette followed it with her magnifying glass held high.
“What’s this for?” asked Cath when Aurienne placed the bottle of
Rathcroghan’s Fortified before her.
“Buying.”
“What?”
“Your silence.”
Cath’s brow shimmered an interrogative purple. “Continue.”
Aurienne sat. She served Cath and herself in a crippled beaker and a wonky flask, respectively. Cath took a generous swig of her wine. Aurienne was more careful; Rathcroghan’s Fortified consisted of wine, brandy, caffeine, and the potential to reduce Aurienne to a talking pile of vomit.
“I need your advice on wound management,” said Aurienne. “But it’s top secret, and I will deny that we had this conversation.”
Cath’s eyes, edged with impeccably sharp purple wing tips, narrowed at Aurienne. “What sort of wound?”
“Penetrating abdominal trauma,” said Aurienne.
“Ooh,” said Cath. “My favourite.”
“The individual was impaled by something long and metallic.”
“If they were stabbed, you can just say so,” said Cath.
“I can’t,” said Aurienne. “You’d have to report it.”
“You ought to be reporting it,” said Cath.
“Yes, which is why I will deny having had this conversation,” said Aurienne.
She explained what she had done so far, accompanying the explanation with a diagram on a napkin to demonstrate the curve of organs and the knife’s near penetration thereof.
She thought the diagram masterful and clear, but Cath asked, “Why have you drawn a tit wank?” and offended her.
“It’s not a tit wank.”
“That’s a cheeky cock.”
“That’s the kni—er, the implement.”
Cath set aside the tit wank. “You’re positive that there was no perforation
of the intestinal tract?”
“None.”
“You’ve closed him up?”
“Yes.”
“He’s hemodynamically stable?”
“Yes.”
“No signs of peritonitis?”
“No. It’s early, but no.”
“Antibiotics, analgesics, and observation, then,” said Cath. “But if you notice any signs of clinical deterioration, you’re to shut down your illicit personal hospital immediately. I’ll send my deofol to check in on you.”
“No, no,” said Aurienne. “Don’t send your deofol.”
“How else d’you want me to reach you? Cork up a message in a bottle
and fling it into the sea?”
“I’ll send mine if I need you.”
Cath, looking suspiciously at Aurienne over the edge of her beaker, drank. Aurienne watched the liquid descend from two hundred fifty millilitres to ninety millilitres.
“How did this patient come into your care?” asked Cath.
“He’s not a patient,” said Aurienne. “And I can’t tell you.”
Again came the shimmer of a brow. “Not a patient? But you’re caring for
him?”
“Yes.”
“What’s so special about this nonpatient?”
“Nothing.”
“He’s special enough to make you break the rules.” Cath rapped her fingertips against her defective beaker. “Do you care care for him?”
Aurienne, suddenly rigid, replied: “Absolutely not.”
“Where is he?”
“At my parents’ house.”
Cath’s eyebrows became acrobatic. “Was your mother the one who
stabbed him?”
“No.”
“You’re sure? She’d have it in her.”
“You must stop asking questions.”
“You’d be all in a lather if I did this to you,” said Cath.
“Foaming at the mouth,” agreed Aurienne.
Cath took another pull at her beaker, whose contents had now descended to forty millilitres, with no noticeable impact on her cognitive functions.
Aurienne was impressed; the fumes alone were making her lightheaded.
Cath leaned back and said meditatively: “If Aurienne Bloody Fairhrim is breaking the rules, there has to be a good reason. I won’t ask any more
questions.”
“Thank you,” said Aurienne.
“You’re not welcome. Your lack of trust offends me.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Shall I be quite honest?”
Aurienne, who would actually prefer Cath not be honest at all, nodded.
“Your secrecy reminds me of the situation with the Hedgewitch,” said
Cath.
“Too honest,” said Aurienne.
“Sorry,” said Cath.
Aurienne watched broken bits of star anise float about asymmetrically in her flask. She had a sip. It tasted like despair. The perturbing thing—the miserable thing—was that Cath wasn’t wrong. There were certain parallels.
This was how it had begun with Amagris. Furtive attractions. Illicit
rendezvous with someone from another Order, outside the scope of her duties as a Haelan. Was she headed towards the old error by new paths?
No. She was older and wiser now. Besides, she had loved Amagris. She could not love Mordaunt.
“I would betake myself to the scaffold before letting that happen again,” said Aurienne.
Cath, serious now, reached across the table and squeezed her forearm.
Aurienne stared at the wall and learned about intracerebral haemorrhages.
The cluster of stirring rods at the pub’s door jingled, heralding the entrance of Élodie. She floated towards Aurienne and Cath, nymphlike, with her Haelan whites drifting behind her in ways Aurienne’s never did.
Constitutionally incapable of walking anywhere without picking flowers, Élodie approached with a roadside bouquet of alliums, which she examined while muttering about their resemblance to spike glycoproteins.
Aurienne, who had been wilting over her wine as pathetically as Quincey over his marmalade, sat up and said, “New dress. Lovely.”
“I put it on just to fascinate you,” said Élodie.
“It’s working.” Élodie spun. Aurienne kissed fingertips her way. Cath said, “Stop flirting with my fiancée.”
“Mightn’t I join your marriage?” asked Aurienne. Élodie drifted into her chair. “I thought you’d sworn off love?”
“Right. I did.” Élodie slipped an allium behind Aurienne’s ear. “Stupid idea, but I suppose even you must have those on occasion.”
Cath’s glance towards Aurienne suggested, for example, secretly healing a Mysterious Stabbed Man.
Aurienne, who had come for a consult, and not repeated deep cuts to her psyche, said, “I’ve got to go.”
“Aren’t you meant to be in London?” asked Élodie. “Or were you called in for the novitiate assessment?”
“I’m meant to be in London, and I’m going back there now. I’m not on this assessment rotation.”
“You’ll miss all the adorable baby deofols. Last time there was a fawn.
But wait—sit. You mustn’t leave just yet. You’ve got to celebrate with me.”
Aurienne sat. Élodie waved Grette down for an additional glass, which came in the form of a U-shaped absorption tube.
Aurienne poured wine into the tube. “What are we celebrating?”
“We’ve got a vaccine candidate,” said Élodie.
“What?” gasped Aurienne.
“Incredible,” said Cath.
They each planted a kiss upon Élodie’s dimpled cheeks. The flask, the wonky beaker, and the absorption tube came together in a cheerful clatter, with cries of “Bravo!” and “Cheers!”
“Official announcements to follow,” said Élodie. “But I wanted to give you la primeur de la nouvelle—the what’s-it-called—the scoop.”
“The nightmare is drawing to a close,” said Aurienne.
Cath topped up their glasses and, having run out of room in hers, drained the bottle into her mouth. Élodie caught sight of Aurienne’s diagram. “Who’s been drawing penises?”
“Aurienne was explaining her plans for the evening,” said Cath.
“Félicitations,” said Élodie. “Is he as well-endowed in good humour as he is in girth?”
“It’s not a penis,” said Aurienne, snatching the napkin from Élodie.
She left Élodie perplexed and Cath cackling into her beaker.
BACK AT MORDAUNT’S BEDSIDE, AURIENNE off-loaded her pilfered goods onto his (her) bedside table. She descended to the kitchen to fetch boiling water for a few doses of bhreue. Mordaunt was awake when she returned—still not quite himself; his eyes were unfocused and his greeting was uncharacteristically affectionate (“You’re back. I missed you”).
Aurienne stirred powdered bhreue into a mug. “I’m pleased you’re awake. You’re to drink this.”
“You brought me a flower,” said Mordaunt, holding up Élodie’s allium.
There were tears in his eyes. Aurienne did not correct him, given that he might actually cry. She, however, was fighting down the bubbling of hysterical laughter.
“You may keep the flower if you finish this,” said Aurienne.
She helped Mordaunt higher onto the pillows and tilted the mug towards him. Mordaunt—unusually docile—drank.
After three or four sips, he grimaced, and said, “I’ve got to tell you, darling, this is awful.”
“It’s bhreue—it’s very nutritious. It’ll help you recover. Don’t call me darling.”
Aurienne put together an impromptu IV stand by removing the shade from a tall lamp.
Mordaunt gave Aurienne what she interpreted as an eyebrow wiggle. “I
found your note.”
“My note?”
“Well, your diagram.” Mordaunt fished about on the table upon which Aurienne had dumped her ill-gotten gains. He held up the napkin. “Is this… what you want to do?”
“It’s what I did,” said Aurienne. “I was explaining the procedure to
Cath.”
“The procedure?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve already done it?”
“Yes.”
“With me? Last night?”
“Yes.”
Mordaunt looked pouty. “You might have waited until I was conscious, so I could enjoy it, too.”
Aurienne stopped untangling tubing, because it dawned on her that she was, once again, being haunted by the tit wank. “It’s not a tit wank.”
“It’s a tit wank,” said Mordaunt.
“That’s not a penis,” said Aurienne. “It’s a blaecblade. And those are semilunar folds, not tits.”
Mordaunt, argumentative even in delirium, said, “The tits have got nipples.”
“Those are omental appendices, not nipples.”
Mordaunt’s eyes were closed. His voice had gone soft; he was fading into
sleep. “I’d do it if you wanted to—”
“I don’t want to.”
“—but I’d really rather be suffocated by your thighs.”
He fell asleep. Aurienne bustled about with the homemade infusion stand.
Hundreds, thousands, of idiotic things had been said to her by half- conscious patients over the years.
This marked the first time she felt the warmth of a blush on her cheeks.
THAT NIGHT, WHEN MORDAUNT HAD fallen asleep, Aurienne drew herself the bath she had desired all day. She sank into the hot water for a well-deserved soak.
Amid the fragrance of lavender sachets and soapy steam, her stresses melted away—mostly. Two knots in her upper back would remain until she died, probably. She ought to name them Mordaunt One and Two.
Mordaunt was doing much better, however. That was the principal thing.
And she had got advice from Cath on his care without having disclosed too much about who, exactly, she was healing. A bloody Fyren. There was a Fyren presently asleep in her childhood bed. Mad. Her mother would kill her.
It was—Frīa forgive her for this thought—in many ways a great pity he was a Fyren. He had a quick wit—intermittently charming, more oft mocking, but well matched to hers. He was considerably competent and wasn’t deficient physically (quite the contrary, unfortunately). He was well educated, though with a questionable specialisation. Mannered, though
occasionally caddish. And he trod the fine line between expertise and arrogance. Aurienne supposed people could say the same about her.
She sighed and sank deeper into the tub. He was what he was.
She was tired. She was stiff.
She wanted an orgasm.
Moreover, she deserved one.
She closed her eyes. Her hand travelled from the edge of the bathtub to her breast, brushed at a wet nipple, and slipped between her legs. The ceiling faded away and was replaced, a bit unusually for her, with the idea of a man between her legs. She paid him little heed other than the novelty of it. He was nondescript; his face was a blur; all that mattered was his capable tongue moving back and forth in a rhythm matching her fingers. She leaned her head back and pressed her palm against herself in small circles. The gentle climb towards orgasm began. Her breathing came heavier; her breasts rose and fell in little movements, an inch above and an inch below the waterline, pleasantly stimulating her nipples with the switch between hot and cold. She was getting close. Behind her closed eyelids she put her hand in the man’s hair and guided him upwards a bit, a little to the left, please, and harder. Her fingers matched her command. Her heartbeat accelerated. She was beginning to crest.
That was when she noticed the man’s hands clasping her thighs. He wore black leather gloves. And his hair— “No,” gasped Aurienne, but it was too late. She was over the edge.
She came, unwilling, pulsing with horror and pleasure and horror and pleasure, knowing exactly who she had come to.
She lay in silence, breathing hard, staring at the ceiling, slick and swollen with the memory of him.
When she had towelled off, and got over the shock, Aurienne told herself, with supreme conviction, that it meant nothing. It had been scratching an itch.
Mordaunt and his stupid comment from earlier happened to be on her mind;
that was all.
She would never think about it again.
She was very good at compartmentalising.
