“Three jobs?” asked Osric.
“Apparently, you’re poor,” said Tristane. “Stop spending your money stupidly.”
She was right, in that Osric was newly poor, but wrong, in that he hadn’t spent his fortune stupidly. He had secretly bribed the Haelan Order to help cure his seith rot. The privilege of Fairhrim’s expertise had cost him twenty million thrymsas, as well as the risk of falling in love with her.
But Tristane mustn’t know this. Osric pocketed the envelopes and said, “It’s hard to shop moderately: everything suits me.”
“You look like you haven’t been eating,” said Tristane. She pinched his chin between two fingers and turned it from left to right. Her black-painted nails dug into his skin. “I don’t like seeing this. Reminds me of the starving boy I found stealing teacakes for hismaman.”
“I’m fine. Had a bit of a stomach bug.”
Tristane pushed her plate towards him: roast gosling and potatoes. “Eat.”
(Tristane could occasionally be tender and maternal with her favourites, of which Osric was one. It was terrifying, like being coddled by an affectionate dragon.)
Sacramore came over to discuss administrative matters. The landowner of the abandoned abattoir where the Fyren Order was presently headquartered had caught wind of the place’s new capacity and objected.
“What is our dear landlord’s name and address?” asked Tristane.
Sacramore provided them.
Tristane said, “I shall candy his balls.”
Osric wished to ask Tristane whether she had made any headway when it came to completing the job that Brythe had failed to at Swanstone, but could find no natural opening to pose the question. It was too risky to ask out of the blue—and now Sacramore was listening, too. Osric would have to hope that Fairhrim implemented his recommendations, and that Tristane, when she eventually got to Swanstone, would be dissuaded from entering the fortress by the threat of the Wardens’ nasty wards.
When Osric returned to RosefellHall, his tacn tingled with vicious annoyance. He had ignored Fairhrim’s deofol for days now, and it was making its irritation known. It felt like it was pressing its canines to the inside of his tacn, insisting on being let through.
Osric, readier now to tackle Fairhrim and her missives head-on, raised his tacn and let the deofol materialise.
Fairhrim’s deofol was a white genet whose usual mode of greeting was insults. It did not diverge from the habit, particularly since Osric had raised its ire.
“Did you just bite me?” asked Osric.
The genet studied Osric and, with a scathing look towards his ensemble, said, “The more pressing question is: Why are you wearing upholstery?”
“It’s a smoking jacket,” said Osric.
“All the sartorial splendour of a futon,” said the genet. “You’ve been ignoring me.”
“I’ve been busy,” said Osric. Because he didn’t want the deofol to know he had been busy desperately moping, he added, “With murders.”
“You look sick.”
“I’m fine, but thank you for your concern.”
“It was an observation, not concern,” said the genet. “The full moon is approaching, and Aurienne is anxious to schedule a planning session for your ill-conceived break-in of the Færwundor.”
“Can she come to Rosefell Hall on Tuesday night?” asked Osric.
“Rather short notice, isn’t it? But that’s typical of you. Short notice, shortsighted, short on brains.”
Osric whipped a throwing knife at the impudent deofol. It was only a creature of seith, and the knife sailed harmlessly through it, but it made him feel better.
“Short-tempered, too,” sniffed the deofol. “I’ll see if she can make it on Tuesday.”
“I’ll send my deofol to confirm the time,” said Osric.
He expected the genet to disappear, but it continued to hover before him. Its tail twitched violently. “Breaking into the Færwundor still strikes me as a terrible idea. What if the Druids catch you?”
