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CHAPTER 1

“If there is only one thing you ever learn from me about faeries, it should be this: A faerie will never make your day any better.”

LORD ELIAS WILDER TO MISS CLARIMONDE BETONY, AGE 10

It was nine o’ clock on a Friday morning when a faerie walked into Clarimonde’s perfume shop in Marylebone and ruined everything.

Technically, of course, it was not Clarimonde’s perfume shop. The quiet, dignified little building belonged to Mr Aloysius Beagle, who was in turn a quiet, dignified little man. As with many craftsmen, Mr Beagle took great joy in his work and no joy at all in the company of his clients—in consequence of which, he had hired several charming, personable ladies to handle the sordid business of actually speaking with the people who hoped to buy his perfumes.

Clarimonde, it must be said, had never been accused of being either charming or personable. But perhaps Mr Beagle had seen in her a sort of kindred spirit—for he had hired her regardless. In fact, he often deigned to talk with her when she walked back into the compounding room to take her lunch and watch him work.

Mr Beagle had not protested on the day that Clarimonde attempted a concoction of her own. Rather, he had calmly informed her that she ought to add less violet to her perfume, as it was likely to overpower her other ingredients.

Bless his soul, but Mr Beagle had clearly never heard the prevailing wisdom that women had no head for chemistry. Try not to use the jasmine when you’re fiddling about, he’d told Clarimonde. It’s terribly dear. Apart from this, he’d mostly let her do as she pleased.

Clarimonde was very fond of Mr Beagle. She had realised, very early on, that it would only distress his craftsman’s sensibilities to know that she was adding magic to her own perfumes—and so, she did not mention her proclivity for sorcery.

Which was why the faerie in Mr Beagle’s perfume shop was so deeply vexing.

The gentleman who had entered the perfume shop was tall and willowy, with all the grace of a gazelle and none of its soulfulness. His chestnut hair was long and glossy, pulled back into a ponytail that nearly reached the back of his knees. This, on its own, would not have announced his vanity—but his narrow features seemed frozen into a perpetually sly expression, and his satin waistcoat was patterned in some monstrously intricate brocade.

Though admittedly eccentric, the man was not strictly out of place; the shop was well-regarded, and it regularly drew interest from London’s upper-crust. But the gentleman carried with him an intangible air of careless whimsy that tickled at the back of one’s neck like the wings of a buzzing fly. It would have been impossible to ignore him.

The offputting fellow turned his glacial blue gaze unerringly to Clarimonde—and smiled.

Clarimonde was not a diviner. As a rule, she left such things as cartomancy to her adoptive sister, Winifred. Even so, some deep-seated instinct in her stomach informed her that she was about to have a truly terrible afternoon.

The gentleman strode directly for the counter, whistling softly to himself. That ridiculous ponytail swayed idly behind him as he walked. It could not possibly be practical to keep one’s hair so long, Clarimonde thought silently. Her own hair—a far less glossy shade of brown—reached just below her shoulders when she didn’t have it pinned up into a severe-looking updo. Such length already required far more maintenance than she preferred.

Already, Clarimonde had decided that he was not strictly human. It was an abrupt decision, as so many of her decisions often were. Though she did not know which detail had specifically alerted her to the idea, she trusted her instincts on the matter implicitly. Most people were very good at overlooking things that they did not expect to see—but Clarimonde had not had that problem for quite some time. Though faeries had not been seen in England for years and years, she was already nearly certain that the man in front of her was one of them.

“May I have your name, madam?” the man asked politely.

Clarimonde let out a short, clipped huff of breath. Of course a faerie would ask for her name. A person’s true name, given from their own lips, had magical significance; both faeries and magicians could use such knowledge to do terrible things to people.

The only pleasure she was likely to have in this entire conversation, Clarimonde thought, was giving her name to this creature and watching him fumble about with it.

“My name is Clarimonde Betony,” she told him, with an obvious long-suffering air. “Would you like me to spell it out for you? I can write it down, if that would help.”

The man blinked at her, briefly taken aback. It was clear that he had expected to expend far more effort to acquire the prize that Clarimonde had so quickly handed over to him. He recovered himself with admirable swiftness, however, offering her another winning smile. “Miss Clarimonde Betony,” he repeated slowly. “What a lovely name.”

As he spoke her name, Clarimonde thought she felt a distant tugging at her soul. It was, she thought, rather like a puppy biting at her skirts in an attempt to garner her attention.

It did not trouble her terribly—though it was minutely irritating.

The name landed uselessly between them, dragging the conversation down into silence. The man’s eyebrows drew together with surprise.

“May we now move on?” Clarimonde prompted finally.

“I…” The man blinked several times, now looking perplexed. “I have never had that happen before,” he said dimly.

“Yes, I know,” Clarimonde said with a sigh. “You were going to use my name to enchant me or befuddle me or command me. I understand the notion—but it has simply never worked that way for me. If it makes you feel any better, I have given my name freely to many powerful people, and none of them have ever found much use in it.”

The man on the other side of the counter studied her with newfound intensity. His cold gaze, Clarimonde thought, was far more distressing than the way in which he’d said her name. “Fascinating,” he murmured. “Utterly fascinating.”

Normally, people took some time to recover from that sort of revelation. Tragically, the faerie in Clarimonde’s shop was not one of them. His smile reappeared. Now, it was the smile of a cat that had just caught two canaries. “Miss Clarimonde Betony,” he addressed her pleasantly (the puppy tugged at the skirts of her soul again, as though enjoying the novelty of her non-reaction). “I would like one of the magical perfumes that you keep behind the counter.”

Now, Clarimonde’s nerves flared with alarm. Danger tingled on her skin, keen and hot. She glanced swiftly about the shop, reassuring herself that it was otherwise empty of clients.