Aurienne wouldn’t know anything about that.
Neither did Cath, who was sitting in a back corner of the pub, putting away a curry, and blessedly out of earshot of the villagers. She sat with Felicette, the Ingenaut-in-residence who maintained and developed Swanstone’s seith-powered equipment, and occasionally introduced less popular advancements, such as the sentient charts.
The chimes at the door of the Publish or Perish consisted of a dozen stirring rods all tied together. Aurienne’s presence was announced by their metallic clang. She returned waves from the Paeds matron, Breage, and a few nurses and fellow Haelan. She received bows from apprentices swallowing lunchtime pints and pies, and nods from a few village grannies setting the world to rights over their cups of tea.
The walls and ceiling of the Publish or Perish were plastered with scientific papers produced by Swanstone—accepted papers, rejected papers, papers scribbled all over with notes, first drafts, final editions. Aurienne’s works were there, too, pasted in during celebratory rounds or dejected rejection pints. A few cheeky scholars had even glued in full books, the pages of which fluttered amid the pong of fried fish and onions, and added their own esoteric whiff to the place. The walls of the Publish or Perish were thus always interesting to stare at; even in their most drunken stupors, patrons always Learned Something.
At the counter, Aurienne flagged down old Grette, the publican. Instead of her usual small ale, Aurienne asked for an entire bottle of Rathcroghan’s Fortified Wine, calculated to please Cath.
“You’re going to get absolutely wankered,” said Grette, who fancied herself an oracle as well as a publican.
“I thought you’d be proud of me,” said Aurienne. “You take the piss out of my usual.”
“If I took the piss out of your usual, it wouldn’t have any flavour at all,” said Grette.
She handed over the bottle; Aurienne pondered how much urine she had ingested in her lifetime.
“Here,” said Grette, softening the blow by handing Aurienne a plate of bread-and-butter pudding. “Last piece—have it before it goes stale. On the house.”
“You’re sure you don’t want it yourself?”
“Milk gives me wet shits.”
Grette placed the pudding on a tray, upon which she arranged some deformed glassware in lieu of cups. Her husband was the Haelan Order’s glassmaker; pieces that were flawed or otherwise didn’t reach the quality standards set by Swanstone’s laboratories were put to use in the pub.
Aurienne took her tray and bottle, and approached Cath with her bribe.
Cath kept her head shaved because of her Cost, which caused hair loss. On days when she had triggered it, she hadn’t any eyebrows, either, and painted them on in various colours. Today, they were an iridescent shade of mauve.
Felicette was observing something under a large, illuminated magnifying glass.
“Felicette has made friends with a fly,” said Cath, drily, to Aurienne.
“Our conceptualisation of sight is pathetically simplistic,” said Felicette. “They can teach us so much.”
The fly flew off; Felicette followed it with her magnifying glass held high.
“What’s this for?” asked Cath when Aurienne placed the bottle of Rathcroghan’s Fortified before her.
“Buying.”
“What?”
“Your silence.”
Cath’s brow shimmered an interrogative purple. “Continue.”
Aurienne sat. She served Cath and herself in a crippled beaker and a wonky flask, respectively. Cath took a generous swig of her wine. Aurienne was more careful; Rathcroghan’s Fortified consisted of wine, brandy, caffeine, and the potential to reduce Aurienne to a talking pile of vomit.
“I need your advice on wound management,” said Aurienne. “But it’s top secret, and I will deny that we had this conversation.”
Cath’s eyes, edged with impeccably sharp purple wing tips, narrowed at Aurienne. “What sort of wound?”
“Penetrating abdominal trauma,” said Aurienne.
“Ooh,” said Cath. “My favourite.”
“The individual was impaled by something long and metallic.”
“If they were stabbed, you can just say so,” said Cath.
“I can’t,” said Aurienne. “You’d have to report it.”
“You ought to be reporting it,” said Cath.
“Yes, which is why I will deny having had this conversation,” said Aurienne.
She explained what she had done so far, accompanying the explanation with a diagram on a napkin to demonstrate the curve of organs and the knife’s near penetration thereof.
She thought the diagram masterful and clear, but Cath asked, “Why have you drawn a tit wank?” and offended her.
“It’s not a tit wank.”
“That’s a cheeky cock.”
“That’s the kni—er, the implement.”
Cath set aside the tit wank. “You’re positive that there was no perforation of the intestinal tract?”
“None.”
“You’ve closed him up?”
“Yes.”
“He’s hemodynamically stable?”
“Yes.”
“No signs of peritonitis?”
“No. It’s early, but no.”
“Antibiotics, analgesics, and observation, then,” said Cath. “But if you notice any signs of clinical deterioration, you’re to shut down your illicit personal hospital immediately. I’ll send my deofol to check in on you.”
“No, no,” said Aurienne. “Don’t send your deofol.”
“How else d’you want me to reach you? Cork up a message in a bottle and fling it into the sea?”
“I’ll send mine if I need you.”
Cath, looking suspiciously at Aurienne over the edge of her beaker, drank. Aurienne watched the liquid descend from two hundred fifty millilitres to ninety millilitres.
“How did this patient come into your care?” asked Cath.
“He’s not a patient,” said Aurienne. “And I can’t tell you.”
Again came the shimmer of a brow. “Not a patient? But you’re caring for him?”
“Yes.”
“What’s so special about this nonpatient?”
“Nothing.”
“He’s special enough to make you break the rules.” Cath rapped her fingertips against her defective beaker. “Do you care care for him?”
Aurienne, suddenly rigid, replied: “Absolutely not.”
“Where is he?”
“At my parents’ house.”
Cath’s eyebrows became acrobatic. “Was your mother the one who stabbed him?”
“No.”
“You’re sure? She’d have it in her.”
“You must stop asking questions.”
“You’d be all in a lather if I did this to you,” said Cath.
“Foaming at the mouth,” agreed Aurienne.
Cath took another pull at her beaker, whose contents had now descended to forty millilitres, with no noticeable impact on her cognitive functions. Aurienne was impressed; the fumes alone were making her lightheaded.
Cath leaned back and said meditatively: “If Aurienne Bloody Fairhrim is breaking the rules, there has to be a good reason. I won’t ask any more questions.”
“Thank you,” said Aurienne.
“You’re not welcome. Your lack of trust offends me.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Shall I be quite honest?”
Aurienne, who would actually prefer Cath not be honest at all, nodded.
“Your secrecy reminds me of the situation with the Hedgewitch,” said Cath.
“Too honest,” said Aurienne.
“Sorry,” said Cath.
Aurienne watched broken bits of star anise float about asymmetrically in her flask. She had a sip. It tasted like despair. The perturbing thing—the miserable thing—was that Cath wasn’t wrong. There were certain parallels. This was how it had begun with Amagris. Furtive attractions. Illicit rendezvous with someone from another Order, outside the scope of her duties as a Haelan. Was she headed towards the old error by new paths?
No. She was older and wiser now. Besides, she had loved Amagris. She could not love Mordaunt.
“I would betake myself to the scaffold before letting that happen again,” said Aurienne.
Cath, serious now, reached across the table and squeezed her forearm. Aurienne stared at the wall and learned about intracerebral haemorrhages.
The cluster of stirring rods at the pub’s door jingled, heralding the entrance of Élodie. She floated towards Aurienne and Cath, nymphlike, with her Haelan whites drifting behind her in ways Aurienne’s never did.
Constitutionally incapable of walking anywhere without picking flowers, Élodie approached with a roadside bouquet of alliums, which she examined while muttering about their resemblance to spike glycoproteins.
Aurienne, who had been wilting over her wine as pathetically as Quincey over his marmalade, sat up and said, “New dress. Lovely.”
“I put it on just to fascinate you,” said Élodie.
“It’s working.”
Élodie spun. Aurienne kissed fingertips her way. Cath said, “Stop flirting with my fiancée.”
“Mightn’t I join your marriage?” asked Aurienne.
Élodie drifted into her chair. “I thought you’d sworn off love?”
“Right. I did.”
Élodie slipped an allium behind Aurienne’s ear. “Stupid idea, but I suppose even you must have those on occasion.”
Cath’s glance towards Aurienne suggested, for example, secretly healing a Mysterious Stabbed Man.
Aurienne, who had come for a consult, and not repeated deep cuts to her psyche, said, “I’ve got to go.”
“Aren’t you meant to be in London?” asked Élodie. “Or were you called in for the novitiate assessment?”
“I’m meant to be in London, and I’m going back there now. I’m not on this assessment rotation.”
“You’ll miss all the adorable baby deofols. Last time there was a fawn. But wait—sit. You mustn’t leave just yet. You’ve got to celebrate with me.”
Aurienne sat. Élodie waved Grette down for an additional glass, which came in the form of a U-shaped absorption tube.
Aurienne poured wine into the tube. “What are we celebrating?”
“We’ve got a vaccine candidate,” said Élodie.
“What?” gasped Aurienne.
“Incredible,” said Cath.
They each planted a kiss upon Élodie’s dimpled cheeks. The flask, the wonky beaker, and the absorption tube came together in a cheerful clatter, with cries of “Bravo!” and “Cheers!”
“Official announcements to follow,” said Élodie. “But I wanted to give you la primeur de la nouvelle—the what’s-it-called—the scoop.”
“The nightmare is drawing to a close,” said Aurienne.
Cath topped up their glasses and, having run out of room in hers, drained the bottle into her mouth.
Élodie caught sight of Aurienne’s diagram. “Who’s been drawing penises?”
“Aurienne was explaining her plans for the evening,” said Cath.
“Félicitations,” said Élodie. “Is he as well-endowed in good humour as he is in girth?”
“It’s not a penis,” said Aurienne, snatching the napkin from Élodie.
She left Élodie perplexed and Cath cackling into her beaker.