Chapter 11 Things That Could Never Be #2
In the hotel’s foyer, polite eyebrows were raised by other guests, but the well-trained staff took Aurienne’s and Mordaunt’s appearance in their stride, and wrapped them in towels and fluffy bathrobes.
The hotel’s proprietor asked if they would like to dine in the restaurant tonight; otherwise, might he suggest having dinner sent up to the suite?
Aurienne said that the latter would be preferable.
Mordaunt, in a fit of extravagance, and looking thoroughly indecent in his wet shirt, called for champagne to be sent up, too.
The proprietor produced Aurienne’s hat, Mordaunt’s cane, and their gloves, which had been found at the viewing platform, and asked if they were theirs.
He returned the things with patient amiability, as though Aurienne and Mordaunt were only the fifteenth pair of idiots who had fallen into the lake today, and not highly trained members of the most elite Orders in the Tīendoms. Aurienne kept her right fist closed and Mordaunt did the same with his left.
They entered their suite and unpacked their things.
Aurienne insisted that Mordaunt shower first, as her hair required attention and she would be slow.
Mordaunt looked doubtful that her hair would take more time than his, but nevertheless agreed.
A white-gloved flurry of waiters descended upon the rooms while he showered.
The chaise longue on the balcony was whisked away and replaced by a table, laid with a crisp white cloth and bracketed by two chairs.
Candles were lit and set to float in a water-filled centrepiece.
A champagne bottle rattled in an ice bucket.
When it was Aurienne’s turn to shower, she made liberal use of Mordaunt’s hair products, which looked expensive.
Afterwards, she wiped steam from the bathroom mirror, detangled her hair with her fingers, and swept the mass over her shoulder to dry in some semblance of order.
Given the late hour and the privacy of their dining arrangements, she decided to forgo decorum and put on her nightdress instead of a new set of clothes.
“I’m having dinner in my sleeping things,” she declared through the bathroom door.
“You are chaos incarnate,” came Mordaunt’s answer.
Aurienne laughed into a towel, pleased he couldn’t see her. He had made her laugh too much today. It would start going to his head.
She sobered up in front of the mirror before exiting the bathroom. There was little she could do about the brightness of amusement in her eyes, but she could, at the very least, control her mouth.
(Could she really? She had just used it to kiss a Fyren. One couldn’t be certain.)
Mordaunt reclined in an armchair while the waiters bustled about with the service trolley and glassware.
The look he gave her, from her bare feet to her bare shoulders, was appreciative, slow—a savouring. “And in walked Fairhrim, dressed in starlight.”
Aurienne glanced down at her nightdress—a grey satin chemise she had thought quite unremarkable.
“Shimmering,” continued Mordaunt. “Frost-fettered. Crowned with an anarchy of curls.”
He turned to the waiters and said, informatively, “This is my wife.”
“Yes, sir,” said the waiters.
“My wife.”
“Indeed, sir,” said the waiters.
Aurienne whispered, “Stop that, you ridiculous man.”
“ ‘Wife’ is rather a nice word,” said Mordaunt.
“As you say, sir,” said the waiters.
“Wife. Wife. Wife.”
Aurienne spotted an almost empty glass in Mordaunt’s hand, which explained things. “I see you’ve already started drinking.”
“In my defence, they brought up Dolgoch’s,” said Mordaunt, holding up a fancy-looking bottle of Scotch.
He, too, had hardly bothered to dress. He was in a fresh shirt, largely unbuttoned, and trousers that looked as though they might not even be fastened under the untucked shirt.
His hair, still wet, was a shade darker than usual.
He lounged, glass in hand, with the easy confidence of a man who knows he is attractive.
The waiters helped them into their chairs and advised them of the evening’s menu—braised oxtail, monkfish, potato boudin, and all of the etceteras—after which they lined themselves along the wall.
Mordaunt dismissed them. “We’ll fend for ourselves, thank you. We live in a rough-and-ready way, don’t we, Mrs. Hungwell?”
Aurienne could only produce a polite smile in response to this absurdity. The waiters wished them bon appétit, made their bows, and left.
“Rough-and-ready?” repeated Aurienne. “As you pluck silver cloches off of our plates?”
“I am a rustic. A son of toil.”
“You are a perfect princeling.”
“Thank you; it’s true,” said Mordaunt.
He poured her a glass of champagne. Effervescence danced upon their tongues.
They had the oxtail and the monkfish and the etceteras.
Candles floated among roses. They emptied the bottle of champagne.
Now only a bit of it was left, at the bottom of each of their glasses, and, to draw out the champagne, or the moment, neither of them lifted their glass to their lips.
Mordaunt, looking at the lake, said, “That was the second time we’ve had to pull ourselves out of water like drowned rats.”
“Perhaps it’s part of the process,” said Aurienne. “Both healings were successful.”
“Make a note in our merkin.”
“My merkin.”
The waiters returned to clear the dishes and left them with a chocolate mousse and a dessert wine. Mordaunt inspected the latter and tilted the bottle inquisitively at Aurienne, who nodded yes.
She savoured mousse off a spoon. The accompanying wine was sunny, sweet, subtly floral.
Her cheeks were warm. She was pleasantly cloudy-headed.
Was this irresponsible? Was this all right?
Was she not allowed to drink and be irresponsible after what she had just achieved at the top of that waterfall?
Mordaunt idly spun a butter knife across his fingers. Rose petals made small, velvety constellations in the centrepiece. All of the candles had gone out save two, slow dancing on the water. Light touched Mordaunt’s fine profile and then, when he turned to Aurienne, warmed his eyes.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” he asked.
As one might remark on a change in the weather, Aurienne said, “I stopped hating you today.”
The knife ceased its twirling. Mordaunt, fixed in place as though he might disturb some spell, asked, “Why?”
“Because you were just—someone happy that they were getting better.”
The knife resumed its twirling. Mordaunt, with a lilt of pleasure, asked, “Do you fancy me, then? It’s all right if you do: everyone does, eventually.”
Aurienne vexed him by laughing. “There are many gradations of feeling between hate and fancy. Indifference, for example.”
Mordaunt’s knife stopped again. “Don’t be indifferent to me. I’d much prefer you hate me.”
“Very all or nothing, in terms of approach.”
“I am nothing if not immoderate.”
The candles dimmed further. Their light reached neither of their faces.
When Mordaunt next spoke, all levity had disappeared. “Have you ever wanted something you can’t have?”
“If you’re you, I suppose you simply steal it,” said Aurienne.
“That’s not always possible.”
“What’s the something?”
“A delusion.” Mordaunt fell quiet for a while, then said, “You told me you loved once and that you’d never do it again.”
“Do you wish to learn from my misery?” asked Aurienne.
“Teach me.”
Aurienne swirled the remaining wine in her glass. “I’ve probably had enough to drink to tell you the story.”
“We are a little bit tiddly,” said Mordaunt.
And Aurienne, who had definitely had too much to drink, told him about Amagris. “I fell in love with a Hedgewitch.”
“Ah.”