Page 109 of The Exquisite Torment of Loving Your Enemy
The air was warm. Streetlamps mingled with the sunset. There was a promising quality to the evening. The crowds were excited: something grand was about to begin. Couples hooked at the elbow flirted, laughed, gazed lovingly at each other, anticipating a wonderfulsoirée entre amoureux.
Aedan, tall and handsome as ever, met Aurienne at the steps, offered her his arm, and led the way to a box in the grand tier. There were two other couples in the box, who greeted them with nods.
“Lovely seats,” said Aurienne.
“Aren’t they?” Aedan helped Aurienne with her cloak. “I think Madame Florimont is going to blow off our eyebrows from here.”
They took their seats as the orchestra tuned up. Aedan told her a story. She laughed in order to fulfil her social obligations. (Aedan was charming and funny, but through no fault of his own he was not Osric Mordaunt.)
They read through the programme together, which had been, on this special occasion, printed upon embroidered silk. Aedan illuminated the programme with a miniature torch. When Aurienne expressed mild interest in the torch, he gave it to her. Then, like a typical Ingenaut, he eagerly showed her the gadget’s various modes—infrared, ultraviolet, thermal.
Tonight’s opera was a French piece calledLa marchande de la mort, a tragedy involving lovers, illicit rendezvous, and various mishaps with guillotines.
“Speaking of executions,” said Aedan, “you must’ve heard of the escape of the Fyren leader?”
“I did,” said Aurienne. “Swanstone was all abuzz with it. I can’t believe she managed to escape the Wardens.”
“The Stánrocc was incensed.”
“You were there?” asked Aurienne.
“Yes,” said Aedan. “We waited for ages—thought the Wardens were just late, or taking extra precautions. Then Dinadan appeared and told us that Tristane had escaped during transit.”
“No,” said Aurienne, feigning shock. “Dinadan must’ve been fuming.”
“Livid. Threw her axe into the ground. Buried it a foot deep. There were a few Fyren there. One of them had a bottle in his cloak. When Dinadan made the announcement, they drank to Tristane’s health. I thought she might murder them all. They must’ve had something to do with it—Tristane couldn’t have escaped without help. And you know what’s funniest in this whole story?”
“What?” asked Aurienne.
“I caught a glimpse of one of the Fyren,” said Aedan. “His cowl slipped a bit. He looked rather a lot like that man you brought to your parents’ do. What was his name—Hungwell? Has he got a brother, or something?”
“I don’t know,” lied Aurienne. “We’re no longer in touch.”
“Well, he was his spitting image,” said Aedan. He nudged her and asked, with a playful smile, “You’re sure you weren’t dallying with a Fyren?”
“I think,” said Aurienne acidly, “I would’ve noticed.”
She stared at Aedan until he squirmed.
“Yes. I suppose you would’ve,” said Aedan.
The house darkened. The audience became a black mass of shadow, glimmering with flowers and jewels. The conductor took his place. Madame Florimont stepped upon the stage to a wild burst of applause.
Aurienne was swept into the tragedy on Madame Florimont’s vocal cords, and before she knew it, it was time for the second interval. Aedan excused himself and disappeared to the gents. The other couples wandered out of the box to greet friends.
Aurienne, equipped with her opera glasses, entertained herself with an examination of the royal boxes. From this angle, she could see the Mercian king, as well as the Wessexian queen and her entourage. The Mercian king greeted the Wessexian queen with eager courtesy.
“Looking for someone in particular?” came a voice.
Aurienne turned, still holding her opera glasses, which brought a man’s crotch into sudden and enormous focus, right against her retina.
It washim.
Not that she could recognise him by bulge alone or anything.
“Mordaunt.”
“Call me Osric,” said Mordaunt.
