Page 93 of The Exquisite Torment of Loving Your Enemy
“He can’t be that bad,” said Cath gently. “You said Xanthe knew about him.”
“You’re acting like he’s some sort of murderer,” said Élodie.
To which Aurienne could make no answer.
With the beginning of Augustcame Lammas, the date of Tristane’s execution. The Haelan Order was invited to the Stánrocc to witness the event. They declined: they had greater emergencies to deal with and, in Xanthe’s words, preferred to spend their time preserving the lives of those who deserved theirs rather than witness the death of one who didn’t.
Lammas came and went. The Haelan Order learned that Tristane never made it to the Stánrocc. She escaped during her transfer from Tintagel Castle.
Aurienne wouldn’t know anything about that.
18
I Can Fix Him and Other Lies She Told Herself
Aurienne
Thanks to Mordaunt, hundreds of children fated for the Dreor Order received care instead, safely ensconced at Swanstone. Aurienne had toyed with the idea of giving him a present ever since the night he warned her that Tristane was going to make a move on the Haelan Order. She had gone so far as to buy something, and then she and Mordaunt had had their enormous quarrel, and the present had since sat, unopened, in her quarters, in a white satin pouch.
After this newest heroic act, Aurienne decided that the moment had come to give him his gift.
It was early August and Aurienne’s first free evening since the asylum and ensuing crisis. She sent Cíele to Mordaunt to enquire about meeting with him.
However, Cíele returned unsuccessful. “Mordaunt shooed me away,” he said. “He says he’s going to be out tonight, committing murders.”
Aurienne sighed. “After what he did at the asylum, I thought he was trying to lift himself from the mire.”
“Do you think he can?”
“I keep seeing glimmers of possibility.”
“He’s a Fyren.”
“He’s a Fyren who has done good things.” Aurienne ran her fingers over the satin pouch that held Mordaunt’s present. “I’ll go to Rosefell Hall anyway. I’ll leave the present with Mrs. Parson. Perhaps this is even better: no awkwardness. It won’t mean much to Mordaunt anyway—not with collections as extensive as his. It’s only a gesture.”
“It may mean more than you think,” said Cíele. “I can’t imagine he gets many presents.”
This remark left Aurienne pensive as she stepped out of her quarters. Mordaunt had everything—but only because he took everything.
Rosefell Hall was dark when Aurienne arrived, save for the flicker of firelight through curtains round the back of the house. She knocked upon the door to the kitchens and received no answer.
The door was partially open, so she pushed it and called, “Mrs. Parson? Mordaunt?”
She stepped into the kitchens and was immediately assaulted by a mass of tail-wagging dogs, who were, judging by the remains they wiped on her, finishing their dinners.
The distant strains of a gramophone emanated from the direction of the house’s one usable sitting room. Aurienne, hindered by Rigor Mortis’ lean on one side and the counter-lean of High Treason on the other, made her way to the sitting room’s double doors. They were drawn closed. Light peeked from under them.
Aurienne knocked and called, “Mrs. Parson? Mordaunt?” but was drowned out by the music’s crescendo and the sound of voices. She knocked again just as the song on the gramophone ended.
“Ah,” came a voice—Mordaunt’s. “That must be our guest of honour.”
In a grandiose sweep, the double doors opened. Mordaunt appeared before Aurienne in an elegant black tailcoat and charming smile—a smile that grew curiously fixed as he took in Aurienne.
Mrs. Parson, bearing a tray, turned too. Her smile also grew fixed.
Among the sitting room’s familiar gilt and fringed lampshades sat unfamiliar people. Well-dressed people, presently observing Aurienne with mild curiosity.
Her eyes were drawn to their hands—hands dangling a cigarette holder, reaching for a glass, fixing a strand of hair.
