Chapter 21 Standing O
Standing O
Aurienne
Back at Swanstone, and properly attired, Aurienne sprinted towards Cath’s Trauma and Acute Care unit, where the injured Leyfarer awaited.
She was soaked in a mist of hlutoform, gowned and briefed.
The devitalised and damaged tissues at the amputation site had been debrided by the time she entered the operating theatre.
Aurienne dealt with the coaptation of the severed seith channels, Cath with rejoining arteries, veins, tendons, and bones.
Cath lectured surrounding apprentices as she went.
Her wasp deofol zipped overhead and made pointed remarks if anyone’s attention lapsed.
The surgery lasted three hours and ended in success.
The Leyfarer, when he woke, showed some recovery of function; he could twitch his fingers and summon seith to his tācn.
He was transferred to one of the London hospitals for postoperative care, accompanied by Cath’s injunction to Please No Longer Touch Propellers.
Afterwards, Aurienne went to Xanthe with the letters Mordaunt had found—the evidence of the Kentish queen’s involvement in the Pox conspiracy.
She and Xanthe passed over the Kentish queen’s previous correspondence with the Haelan Order.
The handwriting was a perfect match. Xanthe sent her deofol to the Heads of their fellow Bright Path Orders, as well as to Vel, the lead Hedgewitch.
Felicette updated Aurienne on the seith-inhibiting serum, Quincey presented her with a few administrative crises, and she simulated interest in the goings-on in her lab.
Her feelings wouldn’t be compartmentalised anymore.
They had burst to life, too vigorous to be pressed away again.
The moment with Mordaunt in the grotto filled her thoughts.
The fluttering butterflies, the scatter of hail, the spinning fossils, the dance of the ivy, the wanting so acute, the taint of it, the kisses upon kisses, the strawberries on his tongue as sweet as a love song.
That evening, she prepared for her outing at the opera with Aedan. She sat at her dressing table, untangling her hair as well as the mad events of the last twenty-four hours. She had snogged Mordaunt in a grotto.
More importantly, she had killed someone.
Why was that the second order of business?
She, a Haelan, had murdered a Fyren.
Irrational. Undisciplined. Insane. That’s what she was.
Aurienne collapsed upon her folded arms. “I’m going mad.”
Acts of Warranted Brutality, who was killing some insect in a corner, looked up.
“I killed someone again,” said Aurienne.
The cat prowled sinuously towards her, leapt upon the dressing table, and sat next to the mirror.
“I’m getting worse and worse,” said Aurienne. “I’m becoming like him. I can hardly step outside without murdering someone.”
The cat blinked her yellow eyes solemnly.
“But Mordaunt was drugged. Bound. On his knees. Helpless. And Lady Windermere was about to kill me. I hadn’t a choice. Windermere came after Mordaunt because he protected us from Brythe. I really hadn’t a choice, had I?”
Aurienne hid her face in her arms. It was time to accept that she was stained. That there was a teeming darkness in her, below her layers of discipline and morals.
The cat stepped delicately over hairpins and ribbons and onto Aurienne’s lap. Aurienne was almost too agitated to notice. She smoothed the fur between the cat’s ears with a fingertip.
“I don’t regret any of it,” she said.
Acts of Warranted Brutality closed her eyes in satisfaction.
Sweet Aedan was a handsome Ingenaut, one of Aurienne’s former lovers.
She had agreed to attend the opera with him because he’d managed to get hold of tickets to see Madame Florimont, the Siren of Sélestat, the Greatest Set of Lungs in Opera History.
Madame Florimont would exceptionally be in London for a single performance before moving on to a tournée of Prussia.
Aurienne had told Aedan they would go as friends.
In a gown of crystalline blue, she arrived at the London Opera House. The crowds were sparkling; the who’s who of the Tīendoms were out tonight in their most lavish attire, in gowns magnificent and coiffures downright architectural, adorned with flowers, pearls, and lace.
The air was warm. Streetlamps mingled with the sunset. There was a promising quality to the evening. The crowds were excited: something grand was about to begin. Couples hooked at the elbow flirted, laughed, gazed lovingly at each other, anticipating a wonderful soirée entre amoureux.
Aedan, tall and handsome as ever, met Aurienne at the steps, offered her his arm, and led the way to a box in the grand tier. There were two other couples in the box, who greeted them with nods.
“Lovely seats,” said Aurienne.
“Aren’t they?” Aedan helped Aurienne with her cloak. “I think Madame Florimont is going to blow off our eyebrows from here.”
They took their seats as the orchestra tuned up. Aedan told her a story. She laughed in order to fulfil her social obligations. (Aedan was charming and funny, but through no fault of his own he was not Osric Mordaunt.)
They read through the programme together, which had been, on this special occasion, printed upon embroidered silk.
Aedan illuminated the programme with a miniature torch.
When Aurienne expressed mild interest in the torch, he gave it to her.
Then, like a typical Ingenaut, he eagerly showed her the gadget’s various modes—infrared, ultraviolet, thermal.
Tonight’s opera was a French piece called La marchande de la mort, a tragedy involving lovers, illicit rendezvous, and various mishaps with guillotines.
“Speaking of executions,” said Aedan, “you must’ve heard of the escape of the Fyren leader?”
“I did,” said Aurienne. “Swanstone was all abuzz with it. I can’t believe she managed to escape the Wardens.”
“The Stánrocc was incensed.”
“You were there?” asked Aurienne.
“Yes,” said Aedan. “We waited for ages—thought the Wardens were just late, or taking extra precautions. Then Dinadan appeared and told us that Tristane had escaped during transit.”
“No,” said Aurienne, feigning shock. “Dinadan must’ve been fuming.”
“Livid. Threw her axe into the ground. Buried it a foot deep. There were a few Fyren there. One of them had a bottle in his cloak. When Dinadan made the announcement, they drank to Tristane’s health.
I thought she might murder them all. They must’ve had something to do with it—Tristane couldn’t have escaped without help.
And you know what’s funniest in this whole story? ”
“What?” asked Aurienne.
“I caught a glimpse of one of the Fyren,” said Aedan. “His cowl slipped a bit. He looked rather a lot like that man you brought to your parents’ do. What was his name—Hungwell? Has he got a brother, or something?”
“I don’t know,” lied Aurienne. “We’re no longer in touch.”
“Well, he was his spitting image,” said Aedan. He nudged her and asked, with a playful smile, “You’re sure you weren’t dallying with a Fyren?”
“I think,” said Aurienne acidly, “I would’ve noticed.”
She stared at Aedan until he squirmed.
“Yes. I suppose you would’ve,” said Aedan.
The house darkened. The audience became a black mass of shadow, glimmering with flowers and jewels. The conductor took his place. Madame Florimont stepped upon the stage to a wild burst of applause.
Aurienne was swept into the tragedy on Madame Florimont’s vocal cords, and before she knew it, it was time for the second interval. Aedan excused himself and disappeared to the gents. The other couples wandered out of the box to greet friends.
Aurienne, equipped with her opera glasses, entertained herself with an examination of the royal boxes. From this angle, she could see the Mercian king, as well as the Wessexian queen and her entourage. The Mercian king greeted the Wessexian queen with eager courtesy.
“Looking for someone in particular?” came a voice.
Aurienne turned, still holding her opera glasses, which brought a man’s crotch into sudden and enormous focus, right against her retina.
It was him.
Not that she could recognise him by bulge alone or anything.
“Mordaunt.”
“Call me Osric,” said Mordaunt.
“No. What are you doing here?”
Mordaunt swept elegantly towards her in a cape of black velvet. “Having a night out.”
“You can’t simply barge into my box,” said Aurienne.
Mordaunt looked offended. “I don’t barge into boxes; I slide in, invited.”
“Aedan is here.”
“Aedan is there,” said Mordaunt, and he pointed to Aedan, who was chatting with someone next to the orchestra, far below.
Aurienne’s alarm persisted. “He can’t see you here. He thinks he recognised you at the Stánrocc the day Tristane escaped.”
“Did he? The brat.” Mordaunt flicked back his cloak. “How are you enjoying the performance? I’m not one of the cognoscenti; you must tell me if madame is in full form or not—”
Aurienne ruthlessly amputated the small talk. “What do you want?”
“It’s a beautiful old building,” said Mordaunt, looking at the opera house’s gorgeous blue and gold ceiling. “I’ve an urge to buy it, but I can’t afford it anymore. Because of you.” A profound sigh followed. “It’s so trying to be poor.”
“What do you want?” repeated Aurienne.
“A moment of your time.”
Aurienne peeked towards the orchestra. Aedan was still safely chatting below—and being observed with interest by more than a few finely dressed ladies.
When she turned around, Mordaunt had produced a flat lacquered box of amourette wood. “I’ve been holding on to this, waiting for the right moment. But you taught me that I must be more like you, and make the moment.”
He opened the box. “You spend a lot of time clutching your pearls when you’re with me, so—”
Within the box’s white satin interior lay a necklace, wrought in delicate white gold. The pendant adorning it consisted of three large pearls haloed in diamonds.
“Atlantean pearls,” said Mordaunt. “Allegedly.”
Aurienne stared at the necklace with an open mouth. “This is for me?”
“Yes.”
“I—I can’t take this. I don’t accept presents from patients.”