Page 115 of The Exquisite Torment of Loving Your Enemy
Osric and Fairhrim attempted to pay. The barkeeper said, “On the house. You both look as though you need fibre.”
A remark that Osric registered as offensive.
He and Fairhrim retreated to their table with their botanical beverages.
“Why do they dress like that?” whispered Osric. “With the belts and buckles all over?”
“I don’t know. They’re extremely secretive,” said Fairhrim. “I never got a straight answer.”
“Even from your lover?”
“Even from her.”
Speaking of whom—
Another Hedgewitch strode into the Rummy Thing. Her knuckle tattoos proclaimedLchnlgnd.
The usually impassive Fairhrim dropped her drink.
“Aurienne,” said the Hedgewitch.
“Amagris,” breathed Fairhrim.
It was Fairhrim’s former lover.
Fairhrim was pathetically starstruck as Amagris approached. “You—you look well.”
Amagris was uncannily attractive, even among the witches in the pub. Osric understood why Fairhrim had fallen for her. Her skin was brown; her eyes were ocean blue, bracketed by fine crow’s feet. Those eyes were a pull—her every glance was the wild sea. Something about her flickered at the edges; black hair curled and blurred, as though she wasn’t quite in this world. Like the other Hedgewitches, her clothing was tied on strangely, with belts and straps at elbows and knees.
She strode towards the table. Her bearing was that of a wild thing, savage, deadly; she put Osric in mind of a hawk.
Fairhrim drank her in, wide-eyed. “H-how are you?”
“Well.”
“I’m pleased to hear it.”
Amagris tilted her head. The ocean eyes glimmered. “You’ve done a bit of Pathworking.”
“I have?” asked Fairhrim.
“I can tell,” said Amagris. “But you’re still seeking happiness.”
“I’m trying,” said Fairhrim.
“What are you doing here?”
“Attempting a healing.”
“Where?” asked Amagris, as though the place mattered more than the what.
“The Isle of Stígr.”
“For this creature?” asked Amagris, and Osric understood her to be referring to him.
“Yes.”
The Hedgewitch looked at Osric. She didn’t blink. She stared straight at him, through him, past him. Her interest in him was fleeting. He might as well have been a worm. He was, for once in his life, unoffended by this. He felt it was safer this way.
