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The sheer injustice of the situation sent Clarimonde surging to her feet. She paced frenetically between the shadowed branches on the wall, trying to ignore the obvious sense in Winnie’s observation. “Well, I… what does Foxglove think of this?” Clarimonde asked, on sudden inspiration. “Surely, he does not wish to steal a harp from a fomórach. He is the greatest coward I have ever met.”

Winnie watched her sister pace with an unreadable expression. “It is true that this is more than I could ever ask of him, even in return for the debt that he still owes me,” she said. “But he will go, Clarimonde. He has already volunteered—as long as you are the one to go with him.”

Clarimonde whirled upon her, incredulous. “If I go with him?” she demanded. “Why?”

Winnie raised her eyebrows. “Isn’t the reason obvious?” she asked. “Lord Foxglove has some other motive for assisting us, which he will not reveal. It’s true that you are difficult to fool, Clarimonde, but you are also terribly easy to read. You are an awful liar—which makes him believe that he can handle you.” She paused. “I know that he is wrong. Though of course… I intend to take extra precautions, in order to be certain of that.”

Clarimonde groaned faintly. Again, her hand strayed into her pocket, so that her fingers could close around the brass watch there. “And… I suppose that he knows how to play the harp,” she guessed bitterly.

Winnie offered her a sympathetic smile. “I fear he will be teaching you.”

CHAPTER 6

“I am told that social niceties are very important, but I do not understand them and I cannot teach you anything about them. I trust this does not trouble you terribly.”

LORD ELIAS WILDER TO MISS CLARIMONDE BETONY, AGE 12

Though everyone involved clearly expected that Clarimonde would spend the night at Witchwood Manor, she had no desire to linger any longer. Setting aside the situation with Mr Brand, she had simply never been very good at waiting once she’d decided upon a course of action.

Thus, Clarimonde took only a moment to freshen herself up at the basin in her room before consulting with the others on the matter of her departure. Winnie now seemed troubled by the swift schedule—but as Clarimonde went back to her bedroom in order to gather her things, her older sister soon reappeared with a small travelling trunk, packed with three particularly lovely gowns.

“You should take more with you than just the clothing on your back,” Winnie mumbled quietly. “I believe that these gowns should be close to your size. One of the faeries here can alter them for you. They are older in style—but I doubt that Tertia will mind, given what she wore to Lady Longfell’s funeral.”

Clarimonde blinked at her. “And why should I care what some ancient evil thinks about my state of dress?” she asked with puzzlement.

Winnie raised her eyebrows as though Clarimonde had missed the obvious. “Surely, you don’t believe that you can sneak into Hollowvale without drawing Tertia’s attention?” she asked. “You require her hospitality if you are going to search for that harp. Mr Quincy has implied to me that she is deeply egotistical and obsessed with appearances. I believe that you will be better received if you wear something expensive, at least.”

Clarimonde plucked a heavy gown made of scarlet and gold silk from the trunk, letting it unfurl against her body. Audacious poppies had been embroidered down the front, set next to several little buttons she suspected to be solid gold. Clarimonde grimaced at it. “This gown could buy a small manor,” she said. “Where on earth did you get it, and why are you giving it to me?”

Winnie smiled wistfully. “Lady Longfell left me her entire wardrobe,” she said. “I doubt that I could wear it all myself, even if I wanted to do so. Besides which—it seems to be the proper tool for this particular affair.”

Clarimonde stared at the gown for several moments, struggling with the idea. Scarlet would do well for her, of course—that was probably why Winnie had chosen the gown for her. But she couldn’t help the niggling thought that she would look ridiculous wearing it, nevertheless. Clarimonde was well aware that she would never be considered beautiful; in fact, she’d been called homely to her face at least once. (Admittedly, the man who’d said as much did so directly after she’d broken his hand with her parasol—so perhaps the description was still in question.)

Winnie must have seen in her expression that she was not entirely convinced. “We can return to the matter of your dress,” she assured Clarimonde. “For now—I have other things to give you.”

Clarimonde set the gown aside on the bed and turned to face her sister, now fully attentive. Winnie had retrieved a small hand-folded envelope, which she now held out expectantly.

“Take this,” Winnie told her. “Don’t open it yet, mind you.”

Clarimonde took the envelope carefully, looking it over for markings—but nothing had been written on the outside of it. “And… when should I open it?” she asked slowly.

“At the moment when you are most in need,” Winnie replied seriously. “I have read your future several times… but I dare not tell you what I have learned. As soon as I speak of it to you, everything will change, and all of my advice might well become useless.” She met Clarimonde’s eyes directly. “There is a card in there. You will know what it means. You will probably know better what it means than I do, in fact.”

Clarimonde knew better than to question how her sister performed her own magic. She nodded and tucked the envelope away. “I will not peek at it,” she promised.

Winnie offered her a slanted smile. “I would peek, if I were in your shoes,” she said. “But you are far more sensible than I am.”

Clarimonde frowned back at the gown on the bed. “While we are speaking of sensible things…” she said. “I don’t suppose that Lady Longfell fancied parasols?”

Winnie’s smile took on just a hint of wicked humour. “Do you know,” she replied, “I believe that she owned several parasols?”

The carriage driver that had originally brought Clarimonde to Witchwood Manor might have halted at the fence line—but Foxglove’s hearse clearly did not share his fear, for it had parked itself directly in front of the entrance. This was particularly helpful, since evening had plunged the countryside into absolute darkness; Clarimonde still had to pick her way down the front stairs with excessive care, as Winnie moved ahead of her with a flickering lantern.

The hearse’s aura of otherworldly dread should have been especially imposing, given the smothering darkness and skeletal trees—but it must have been in a better mood, for Clarimonde felt only a mild existential discomfort as it folded out its steps for her.

Winnie offered her one last wordless embrace before retreating to the manor door, watching as Clarimonde disappeared into the carriage.

Lord Foxglove had already stretched himself out upon the velvet cushions of the hearse, as though idly contemplating sleep. His long pale hair had been unbound for comfort; it spilled about the carriage every which way, faintly illuminated by the moonlight of his waistcoat.