Chapter 19 I Can Make Her Worse
I Can Make Her Worse
Osric
Osric groaned himself into consciousness. He knew that there was fuckery afoot, but he could not recollect what it was. Clues came in the form of voices discussing sedative drugs.
He had a splitting headache. Cool, glassy seith swept into him and alleviated the migraine. He fell asleep again. His dreams were troubled and featured disturbing images of leaking brains and a cow.
He was alone when he awoke. The taste of sick lingered disgustingly in his mouth. He might be sick again.
No: he was not alone. Mrs. Parson’s deofol, a stocky badger, floated above him. Her name was Wilhelmina, and she was even more sensible than Mrs. Parson.
She floated closer to Osric and peered at him nearsightedly. “Awake at last.”
“Where’m I? What time is it?”
“Your rooms,” said Wilhelmina. “Quarter past five in the morning. An unusual time for you to be awake. Can’t fault you for being confused.”
Osric opened his eye more widely. He was, indeed, in his bedchamber. There was an empty chair at his bedside.
“If you’re going to be sick again, kindly aim for the bucket,” said Wilhelmina. “We’ve only so much spare bedding.”
The deofol disappeared to fetch Mrs. Parson, who came in with a pot of tea. “Pleased to see you conscious.”
“Not pleased to be conscious,” said Osric. “What happened to me? Am I getting old, Mrs. Parson? It was three drinks. I’ve never been so completely trolleyed.”
“Windermere drugged you,” said Mrs. Parson. “Haelan Fairhrim saved you.”
Bits of the evening came back to Osric in blurred flashes.
The immense shock of seeing Fairhrim in the same room as Tristane.
The way it had put him in a filthy temper, driven entirely by fear for her safety.
Leofric’s idiocy. The hissed argument in the cupboard.
Lady Windermere’s brains coming out of her eyes.
“Did—did Fairhrim kill Lady Windermere last night?” asked Osric.
“She did, sir.”
“I thought it was a fever dream.”
“Haelan Fairhrim is a most able woman,” said Mrs. Parson. “She saved your life.”
Mrs. Parson pressed a cup of tea into his hands.
“We carried you upstairs. Haelan Fairhrim looked after you while I dosed our remaining guests with a mild amnesiac. We thought it would be best if everyone’s recollection of the evening was a bit blurry, for when Lady Windermere’s disappearance is noticed. ”
“Good shout.”
Mrs. Parson remained grave. “You’re lucky Haelan Fairhrim was with you when Lady Windermere made her move.”
“I realise that.”
“I took the liberty of burning the body.”
“Putting the arson in Parson,” Osric said, nodding.
“It’s not funny. You could have died.”
“Where is Fairhrim now?”
“Taking breakfast on the terrace,” said Mrs. Parson. “She was by your side all night.”
“Has she slept?”
“No.”
“Have you?”
“No.”
“Right. I’ll shoo her off to rest. You should, too.”
Mrs. Parson made to leave, hesitated, and then turned around again. “Do you know anything about the stone Haelan Fairhrim wears around her neck?”
“The rock thing? No idea.”
“Right,” said Mrs. Parson. “A most able woman,” she repeated as she left.
Having bathed and dressed, Osric stepped onto the terrace to find a misty morning awaiting him. The air was fresh and dewy, laden with juniper and clover. Above it all lingered the scent of hours-old smoke, the final earthly remains of Lady Windermere.
Osric’s footsteps were muffled by moss upon the paving stones.
Like much of Rosefell, all was sweet decay upon the terrace, save for a tree that was profusely in bloom.
Its enormous boughs arced in feathery clusters of white, adding their honeyed fragrance to the air.
Even at this early hour, the tree buzzed with insects.
Its branches curved over a wrought-iron table. Fairhrim was seated there, on a stone bench. She wore one of Mrs. Parson’s shawls over her white Haelan dress. Mrs. Parson had taken out the fine porcelain in her honour; her tea steamed away in the morning air in a cup of delicate pink.
Mr. Parson, the groundsman, stood beside Fairhrim. They were engaged in a conversation about the flowering tree.
“Laburnum sperantia,” said Mr. Parson. “She’s over a hundred years old.”
“I thought I recognised it,” said Fairhrim. “Isn’t it quite unusual to find one at this latitude?”
Mr. Parson ran a hand over the tree’s trunk. “Yes. One of the great ladies of Rosefell Hall planted her long ago. Brought her as a sapling from Suomi.”
“She’s thriving.”
“I’m pleased there’s someone here to admire her today,” said Mr. Parson.
Fairhrim looked up at the tree in an uncharacteristic reverie. Her gaze remained soft as it turned to Osric.
Mrs. Parson arrived with a tray for Osric and bid him to eat it all before making her way back to the kitchens.
Mr. Parson offered her his elbow. They walked arm in arm, whispering about there being, one day, another great lady at Rosefell Hall.
Mr. Parson plucked a fallen leaf from Mrs. Parson’s hair.
“It seems nice,” said Fairhrim, watching them go.
“What?” asked Osric.
“What they have. An ordinary sort of love.”
“I don’t think either of us is destined for an ordinary sort of love.”
Fairhrim didn’t acknowledge the remark but didn’t contradict it, either. The dogs formed an attentive pile rug at her feet. She threw bits of crust towards open maws before asking, “How are you feeling?”
“Lethally hungover,” said Osric.
“Lady Windermere dosed you with something potent.”
“You haven’t slept at all.”
“Well, obviously.”
“You should.”
“As soon as I finish my tea.” Fairhrim moved along the bench to make room for Osric. “Sit. The dogs shall have a new victim.”
“They aren’t starving. They’re lying,” said Osric, nevertheless tearing up a piece of toast and distributing it to the eight mouths under the table.
“I must thank you. If you hadn’t got a wild hair last night and decided to come here, I’d be dead.
It’s a bit late to make introductions, but Lady Windermere was Brythe’s lover.
She’s been searching for his killer for months.
And last night, she found rather compelling evidence of my involvement.
I’d locked that blaecblade in my best safe.
But Lady Windermere was motivated. I suppose the maths works out: I killed him for you, you killed her for me… ”
He expected an objection to such a use of mathematics, but none came. Fairhrim, her arms crossed under her head, had fallen asleep on the table.
Osric ate his toast. Had he always chewed this loudly?
The dogs, who found crusts an insufficient breakfast, went inside to harass Mrs. Parson instead.
Osric poured a cup of tea. Anxious about waking Fairhrim with the tinkling sound of stirring in milk and sugar, he drank it black, at great personal sacrifice.
Fairhrim was safe at his side. That was the principal thing.
Her hands were a bit blistered along the knuckles and nails; she had triggered her Cost by working on him all night. Just what he wanted. More ropes of owing around his neck.
Her fingers were lightly curled over her tācn.
There was such deceptive power therein. Osric understood now why neither Xanthe nor Fairhrim had been remotely concerned when he had first broken into her office, many moons ago.
Last night, there had been no weapon. Only touch.
Thus it had been with the wightlings at the asylum, too.
Fairhrim and her tācn too bright to look at: a bolt of lightning, a Valkyrie’s spear.
She slumped off the table and onto Osric’s lap.
Osric froze. It was as though an extraordinarily rare, skittish creature had just alighted on him. The feel of it went to his heart and stayed there.
He did not move. Something similar had happened once before, at the lighthouse, and sent the same thrill through him. That was so long ago now.
They made a romantic tableau vivant, he and she, together on the mossy bench, framed by garlands of white.
The light shifted, became translucent and tender.
Wind rustled by in a whisper. The steam from the cups of tea danced along it, briefly making the breeze visible.
Blossoms drifted down. All was summer beauty. All was slow-dripping silence.
Upon his lap lay one fairer than summer.
It was a glimpse of a possible future. Something quiet, gilded with peace.
A petal landed upon Fairhrim’s cheek and clung there like a kiss. She, the ice queen, she, the iron wrought, was collapsed upon his lap, as soft and warm as a housecat.
Osric realised that he was smiling.
So passed an hour or two. Bees worked on the tree in a dreamy hum, the low harmonics of summer.
Fairhrim’s hair, loosening from its plait, tumbled past Osric’s knee in a curling cascade.
He ran a strand of it through his fingers.
He did it lingeringly, lovingly, hopelessly. He looked at her unkissed neck.
Petals fell and he fell with them in this aimless, fluttering descent.
His happiness was traversed by pain. This was not a vision of the future, but a phantasm of what could have been. If he had made better decisions. If he hadn’t led a life so tainted by his tācn.
Fairhrim moved. Osric withdrew his hand. She mustn’t catch on. She would flee. (He didn’t have her, but he didn’t want to lose her. What a stupid loop; it wasn’t even logical.)
Wistful, dreamful, she awoke.
Osric assumed an expression. Which expression, he didn’t know.
Fairhrim muffled a yawn. She asked, “Why do you look so serious?”
“I’m thinking of serious things,” said Osric.
“What?”
“Lady Windermere,” said Osric plausibly.
Fairhrim pushed herself into a seated position. Osric immediately missed the weight of her across his lap.
“I wouldn’t have spilled her blood if she hadn’t spilled mine,” said Fairhrim.
The shawl fell away from her shoulder. There was a tear in the Haelan dress, under her left breast.
Osric’s eyes flew open. “She got you?”
“Hardly,” said Fairhrim.