Page 165 of The Exquisite Torment of Loving Your Enemy
It was March. Osric hadn’t seen Aurienne for a fortnight. She and other Haelan had gone to some war-torn border town to provide emergency medical relief. He found himself thinking of her too much to sleep. She had been meant to return to Swanstone the night before. Was she home safe? Had she exhausted herself? Her hands had better be all right. (Gruesome visions of her Cost-shredded hands plagued Osric still; the sick white glint of her bones would haunt him for the rest of his life.)
Osric tossed and turned in his bed. He clutched the pocket watch Aurienne had given him to his chest and imagined it was her heartbeat he felt ticking. He pondered whether to visit her. No. If she was back at Swanstone, she must rest. Firmly and decisively, no.
Then—five o’clock in the morning was no time for a man to be firm and decisive—he went to the waystone.
The wards at Aurienne’s tower window had once prevented his entry, but after his heroic act of self-sacrifice at Swanstone (their words, not his), the Haelan Order had integrated Osric’s seith signature into them. He popped the window open, careful to avoid hitting the glass cloches and orchids upon Aurienne’s windowsill.
Aurienne was sound asleep in her white bed. Her hands looked undamaged, maybe a bit of peeling at the knuckles.
He wouldn’t wake her. To see her was enough. To be near her was enough.
Curled at her side lay her cat, a black comma on a white page. The cat spotted him. Its pink mouth opened and emitted a high-pitched meow.
Aurienne stirred and raised her sleep-tumbled head. Her hair fell over her shoulders like soft night.
She spotted him. “Osric.”
Her voice was husky, sleep-laden. She used to say his name like it was a swear word. And now it was spoken gently. Affectionately. Beckoningly. And her eyes were soft—terribly soft for a queen of ice.
To his vast exhilaration, she stretched her arms out to him.
Full-hearted, heady, he floated to her side. The queen of ice had a very warm embrace. She smelled good. Hlutoform and shampoo. He buried his face in her neck. All was dream. All was a bit ofdéjà rêvé.
“Is everything all right?” she asked.
“Yes. Are you?”
“Got back a few hours ago. Tired. Why are you here?”
“Because,” Osric leaned over her and brought his face close to hers, “I missed you.”
He kissed her all over her face and found that her cheeks were suddenly and warmly suffused with a fine blush. He enjoyed this new power: she had been so unflappable for so long, and now he had new ways to fluster her, to leave her with blushes instead of ready retorts. He let it go to his head. He would abuse it relentlessly. He did like to see her suffer.
A warning growl sounded in his ear, which advised him that a small creature full of knives was nearby.
He lifted his head. Aurienne’s cat regarded him in disapproval.
Osric said, “Pspsps.”
The cat’s yellow eyes narrowed into slits.
“She hates everyone,” said Aurienne, stroking the cat between the ears.
“She doesn’t hate you.”
“I had to earn my way into her good graces. Mostly by confessing to murders.”
Osric turned to the cat. “I can do that. How much time have you got?”
The cat looked him up and down.
“I’m a Fyren, you know,” added Osric impressively.
The cat regarded Osric with absolute condescension.
“She’s picky,” said Aurienne. “The murders must be Warranted to count.”
The cat stalked away with her tail held high, as though Osric had wasted enough of her time.
