Page 166 of The Exquisite Torment of Loving Your Enemy
Aurienne sat up higher and bumped herself against a desk—a desk that was, come to think of it, strangely close to the bed. Osric had been too fixated on her to notice that her quarters were crammed with furniture—two desks, an absurd amount of shelves, stacks of books.
“Why is it so crowded in here?” he asked.
“I had to give up my office to make room for more beds,” said Aurienne. “With all of these wars, we’ve got loads of new patients, and beds are more critical than admin. Several of the labs are going to be shut down, too. Mine included.”
“Shut down?”
Aurienne said, with neutral professionalism, “Temporarily. Saving lives in the immediate is more important, and we simply haven’t the space for the influx of the dying. Six of the Tiendoms are actively at war.”
“That’stheirchoice. Why should Swanstone help any of them? What happened to being apolitical?”
“It’s civilians we’re helping. Not soldiers.”
“But your research…”
Aurienne’s mask of professionalism faltered. It was replaced by sad resignation. “Fifty beds today are more valuable than research that will only be applicable tomorrow.”
She cut herself off with an enormous yawn, which she muffled into a fistful of her sheets.
“I’ll let you sleep,” said Osric, pressing a kiss to her mouth. But as he rose to leave, Aurienne snatched his sleeve. He turned to her with an interrogative brow.
“Stay,” she said.
“Stay?”
“I don’t want to say goodbye to you already. We always have to say goodbye.” Her fingers tightened on his arm. “Stay.”
This broke several things loose in Osric: new hopes, new, entirely stupid ideas. He thought of the things. Giving her things. Together things. Till-death-do-us-part things. Forever things.
(However soon death might part them. Whatever forever looked like, navigating these war-churned tides.)
He yielded to her command. He removed his cloak and assorted weaponry, kicked off his boots, and lay next to her. What a sweet communion, to gather her in his arms. What an ecstasy, to put his face in her neck. Palms found cheeks, and lips found lips, and everything was kisses, kisses.
“Are you free tomorrow evening?” asked Osric.
“I can be,” said Aurienne.
“Come to Rosefell. I want to show you something.”
Aurienne fell asleep in his arms. Her hair danced across the pillow like swirls of forgotten cursive. He pressed a kiss to her forehead. He touched bliss.
Was this what love was? Noticing curls on a pillow, kissing the tops of heads, floating? A ruinous thing.
Fatigue left dark smudges under Aurienne’s eyes. She held Osric’s hand loosely, curled against her collarbone. Terrifying that this blistered,calloused hand held his heart cupped in it. He was at her mercy. What a rush. What vertigo. He passed his thumb over her knuckles and their peeling skin.
He lay motionless as she slept. She snuggled into him closer. The feel of her cheek pressed to his chest obliterated everything he thought he knew about value, about preciousness. This was the most exquisitely important thing in the world. He brushed a fingertip against her cheek.
Was this what love was? Falling into it, again and again?
She stirred back to consciousness hours later.
Their kiss awakened the sky.
The next evening, Aurienne cameto Rosefell. Her Haelan dress was adorned with long cape sleeves, fluttering in the cool March breeze.
“What did you want to show me?” she asked, stepping away from the waystone.
Osric took her hand and led her through Rosefell Hall. She followed, observing rooms, previously stuffed with sheet-draped furniture, now standing empty, and walls adorned in mosaics of blank patches.
