Chapter 18 I Can Fix Him and Other Lies She Told Herself
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.
They all had a hellhound’s skull upon their left palms.
She had just walked into a Fyren soirée.
A few eyebrows rose among the crowd. Aurienne determined, astutely, that she was not the awaited guest of honour. She closed her right hand over her tācn. “Er—hi,” she said to Mordaunt. “I was just dropping something off. I’ll—I’ll leave it in the kitchens, shall I?”
“Hullo,” managed Mordaunt. “I wasn’t expecting you. Erm—certainly. The kitchens.”
“Right—I’ll just—go then, shall I?”
Aurienne took a step backwards and collided with someone.
“You,” said the someone. Strong fingers snatched Aurienne by the chin. “You.”
That voice. Those Gorgon eyes.
It was Tristane.
She held Aurienne’s face in a vice grip. Aurienne wasn’t sure whether she was about to be strangled or eaten. She gathered seith at her tācn and eyed Tristane for the nearest patch of bare skin.
Then Tristane kissed her on both cheeks.
Aurienne, transfixed, was drawn into the sitting room by the Fyren Order’s warchief.
Tristane was magnificent in a low-backed black dress.
Her entrance was heralded by cheering and raised glasses: it was she who was the much-awaited guest of honour.
The Fyren in the room offered words of congratulations and respectful bows.
Tristane’s sharp fingers did not release Aurienne’s wrist. Mordaunt had never looked so perplexed.
“Yes—c’est vrai—I am out at last.” Tristane whirled Aurienne into a spin. “And this creature is the one who made my escape possible.”
There was a chorus of oohs, which was fortunate, because it covered Mordaunt choking on his drink.
“Osric, bravo, you really outdid yourself, having her here tonight,” said Tristane.
Mordaunt pressed the back of his hand to his mouth and said, “Of—of course. Anything to please you, Tristane.”
Tristane turned to Aurienne. “And you agreed to come? I am honoured by your presence.”
Her arm hung round Aurienne’s shoulders like a friendly executioner’s. Aurienne had never been so paralysed by shock. Thank Frīa her cloak covered her Haelan whites.
Mordaunt did not fare much better. He was doing his best debonair lean against the fireplace, but a stiff line of tension marred his slouch.
His tācn glimmered with suppressed seith.
His eyes restlessly passed from Aurienne to his colleagues, as though he suspected that they would launch themselves at her between bites of canapés.
He interspersed this activity with glowers cast Aurienne’s way, which informed her that if Tristane didn’t kill her, he would do it himself.
Aurienne returned these looks, enlivened by righteous anger. If he hadn’t lied to Cíele about his whereabouts tonight, she wouldn’t have walked into this den of wolves.
Mrs. Parson was trying her best not to look concerned, but was so distracted that she poured whiskey into a dish of mushroom tartlets.
A late arrival popped in. It was Leofric.
Aurienne distinctly heard Mordaunt say, “Hel.”
Leofric danced into the room in a scarlet tailcoat and made a profound bow to Tristane.
“Welcome back, boss,” he said. “We’ve missed your iron hand on our cocks, metaphorical and actual. Have I already missed the story of how you escaped from—”
Leofric cut himself off: he had just spotted Aurienne. He froze, stared at her open-mouthed, then gasped, “Haelan Hot Tits.”
A ripple of startled whispers (“Did he just say Haelan?”) made its way round the room.
“Really, Leofric,” said Tristane.
She snatched him by the face. Her nails dug into his cheeks. Leofric made a sound like suffering bagpipes.
“A bit more discretion next time,” said Tristane.
“Yes, Tristane,” said Leofric.
Tristane released him and turned her imperious gaze to the assembled Fyren. “Keep the information to yourselves. Such crossings of the frontières between Orders aren’t allowed. The Haelan did me a good turn. Thanks to her, Dinadan’s axe must wait another day to taste my blood.”
She turned to Aurienne. “Those present will say nothing. They form the backbone of the Fyren Order. Allow me to introduce you to every vertebra.”
Aurienne was accordingly introduced to the Fyren present. She was passed around like a novelty and drawn into debates about where was best to stab people for maximum haemorrhages.
She retained few names. Sacramore she had seen at the Stánrocc and liked, his being a Fyren notwithstanding.
He muttered into her ear that he had personally objected to the Swanstone job and that he hoped there would be no hard feelings between them.
Lady Windermere was narrow and slippery.
Lirain was a dangerous red-haired beauty, and if she hadn’t been a Fyren, Aurienne would have been interested in getting to know her better.
As it was, their eyes met, and Lirain’s lovely lips lifted at the corners.
Mordaunt fumed a few feet away.
“What’s the plan, Tristane?” asked Beaufort, the broad-shouldered Fyren blaecsmith.
“I shall lie low for a while,” said Tristane. “All of you must claim ignorance about my whereabouts. Sacramore will continue to act publicly as the new warchief.”
Mordaunt continued to glare at Aurienne. Not wishing to overstay her welcome, which did not exist, she made attempts to leave the party. She was thwarted variously by Tristane, or Leofric, or Lirain.
Mordaunt was accosted by the elegant Lady Windermere, who pressed a drink into his hand and hooked her arm comfortably in his.
Aurienne did not like Lady Windermere.
The assembled Fyren got remarkably drunk. Beaufort and Leofric sang. Their efforts were expressive of nothing particular save a notable lack of musical talent.
At length, Tristane exchanged some low words with Sacramore and said her goodbyes to the assembled Fyren. “You may contact me through Sacramore. I was never here.”
She was bowed out of the room, though the bows were a little sloppier than they had been upon her entrance.
On her way out, Tristane drew Aurienne’s hands in hers and said, “Hel keep your path dark.”
“Frīa’s light be on yours,” said Aurienne, meeting one impertinence with another.
She was punished for the cheek by a vicious squeeze.
“I’d rather you didn’t draw me to her attention,” said Tristane.
“U-understood,” said Aurienne.
Tristane left. Aurienne rubbed her puréed hands together.
Now there was an unfriendly grip at her elbow. Mordaunt dragged her out of the sitting room and into a wardrobe featuring a taxidermised cow head, an orrery, and a collection of medieval torture implements.
In this romantic setting, they proceeded to have a hissed argument.
“Have you lost your mind?” was Mordaunt’s polite opening enquiry.
“Better lost than entirely nonexistent,” said Aurienne. “Why would you lie to me about where you were?”
“Why did you decide to come tonight, of all nights?”