Page 147 of The Exquisite Torment of Loving Your Enemy
Widdershins’ early translation notes were still pinned in place on the plaster. In a slow downwards motion, Aurienne traced the moons and the healing, unfurling the dusty translation notes as she went.
March,dream-laden—the early failure at the pond. April—look through the shinbone of a hare—the Downs, another failure. May—blackened sun at land’s end—the transcendent moment at the lighthouse. Slowing of the progress of the rot. June—running waters cross—the Færwundor. A healed node. July—rainbow—the waterfall, the reversal of the demyelination. August—waves draw you under—the isle, the storm, and Osric’s seith system cured.
The healing had been completed in six moons.
Aurienne’s fingers went to September’s harvest moon. She unravelled Widdershins’ translation note, curled upon itself with age.That hidden abode.
Hadthe healing been completed? What of this gaping wound in her chest? What of this grievous load on her soul? What of this sick regret?
Through the open window flew a moth. Like a feather, or a petal of white whorled with black, it landed upon the Stone, right next to Aurienne’s hand.
The thought occurred to her—absurd thought, absurd dream logic—that there might be a path forward here to heal her bloodied heart.
She sat at her desk and returned to the data. For company, she summoned Cíele, who perched himself on her chair’s right arm. Acts of Warranted Brutality surprised them both by settling upon the left one. Between the being of white and the creature of dark, Aurienne read. She read until dawn broke and the doves in the roof began to coo.
Where was the hidden abode?
28
The Slow Turn of the Knife
Osric
When the bandages over Osric’s eyes were removed, he discovered that Wardens were in the beds next to him. They stared at him in hostile silence. He learned that their names were Verity and Haven. Xanthe and her team had regrown various damaged organs of theirs.
“Foul creature,” said Haven to Osric in a cracked voice. “And yet you were splendid. Why did you help?”
“I’m the world’s greatest idiot,” said Osric.
The Wardens accepted this without argument, which he found a bit offensive.
“A broken clock is right twice a day,” said the one called Verity. “And even a Fyren can do good.”
“Tristane came, too,” said Haven.
“Miracles upon miracles,” said Verity.
As soon as Osric’s eyes were healed, he left Swanstone. He did not wait for a formal discharge. He didn’t wish for Xanthe to call inAurienne—Fairhrim—to help him out, or say goodbye, or any other wastes of time.
Through Xanthe’s skill, his eyes had been regenerated from, according to her, “two Cost-shrivelled raisins” to this—normalcy. He blinked at the world in wonder. All of his other injuries were equally healed—the withered arm, the wound at his chest. No new scars marred him. He had been exceptionally well treated at Swanstone. He could find no fault in the Haelan Order.
He discovered his signet ring in the pocket of his cloak.
Hecouldfind fault in Fairhrim, and he did. He had given up his fortune, his seith to the last drop, almost his life, because of her. Because she couldn’t keep a bloody promise.
(He had never kept a promise to her, but still. This one had been important.)
He returned to Rosefell Hall. Tristane came to collect her payment. She called him a madman as she did so.
“Never put yourself in danger so recklessly again,” said Tristane. “I’ve invested a lot in you.”
“It won’t happen again,” said Osric.
He walked Tristane to the door. The corridors echoed strangely under his and Tristane’s boots. The house was nearly empty; he had had to sell most of his collections to make up her fee.
“All your pretty things are gone,” tutted Tristane.
Osric, his hands shoved into his pockets, said, “I’ll buy them back, one day.”
