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He was, admittedly, a picturesque sight, fit for a beautiful painting. Clarimonde found herself wondering whether he put conscious effort into posing himself that way, or whether it was simply second nature to him.
Foxglove turned his head as she entered. “Ah, Miss Betony,” he greeted her. “It seems that we remain in each other’s company for a little while longer.” He eased himself up to a seated position, pushing his hair behind him. “I have asked the hearse to take us to Hollowvale. We shall see, I suppose, whether Tertia left her door unlocked.”
Clarimonde tucked her new lacy parasol into a corner of the hearse and sat down across from him, awkwardly shifting the folds of her travelling cloak over the crimson gown that Winnie had given her. Lord Foxglove’s eyes flickered to the flash of red twilled silk, as the vehicle shuddered once and began to move.
“I see that we are dressing to make an impression,” the faerie observed. “Have you already decided how it is that you intend to gain the lady’s hospitality?”
Clarimonde pressed her lips together. After a pause, she reached for the valise at her feet in order to retrieve a small leather case of tools, which she took to her pocket watch with half-pretended concentration. “I have not thought on it yet,” she admitted, as she popped open the watch’s glass. “The gown was Winnie’s idea. She has related that Tertia has expensive tastes.”
Lord Foxglove watched her hands with distant fascination. “Oh, she does,” he said. “I believe that she does, in any case. I was a different person when I met her, long ago. The memories have mostly faded.”
Clarimonde frowned at the glass, gently wiping a smudge from its edge. “A different person?” she asked. “Do you mean to say that you wore a different face at the time?”
Foxglove gathered up his pale hair over one shoulder, tying it into a loose ponytail once again. “I did look different,” he agreed. “And I had a different name. Mortals do not use names as we do, so the full significance of that may not make sense to you.” His tone made it clear that he intended to move past the matter—but when Clarimonde looked up at him and raised her eyebrows expectantly, he shrugged and continued.
“Faeries do not die of simple age,” he said. “But many of us eventually grow weary under the weight of our years. Being the same person forever can be a heavy thing; sometimes we let our names die, and we choose another name. What follows grows out of the seed of who we were—but it is very much a different person.”
“Oh,” Clarimonde managed. “I had no idea.” She turned the concept over in her mind as she lowered the pocket watch’s glass gently back into place. “Is that why you were once Lord Hollowvale, and now you are Lord Foxglove?”
Foxglove’s fingers twitched ever-so-slightly against his hair. Though he continued speaking smoothly, as though nothing was wrong, Clarimonde knew that the question had bothered him somehow. “Both of those are titles,” the faerie said. “I am speaking of names. Just as most magicians will not freely give their name, most faeries will not ever speak their name aloud.”
Despite her normal distaste for all things faerie, Clarimonde found this conversation absolutely fascinating. “Then are you the lord of some realm called Foxglove now?” she pressed him.
The faerie sighed. “Admirable as I find your academic curiosity,” he said, “I must remind you, Miss Betony, that we are on our way to Hollowvale as we speak. We should perhaps prepare a plan before we arrive.”
This was another clear evasion—but it had the benefit of being true. Clarimonde reluctantly followed his suggestion. “I will need to ask your advice on the matter, obviously,” she said, as she stashed the watch back in her pocket. “I have never met Tertia directly, under this name or under any other name. What do you know of her?”
Foxglove relaxed minutely at the change in subject. “She is a terribly vain creature,” he said. “She has a right to be vain, I suppose; many would say that her beauty is unmatched. But beauty is a common thing in Faerie, where countenance is often a matter of choice.” He flashed Clarimonde a knowing smile. “As I recall, she preferred the company of mortals, who are more likely to fawn over lovely things. In those days, they called her the Leanansidhe.”
Clarimonde frowned, turning this over in her mind. “Then I should be flattering my way inside?” she guessed carefully.
The expression that Lord Foxglove offered her was far too easily impressed for such an obvious conclusion. “I think that would be a wise course of action,” he agreed. “I suppose your story should require you to stay for an extended time, so that we can search for the harp. It will need to account for my presence as well; Tertia will surely notice that I am with you, even if she does not recognise me specifically.”
Clarimonde fiddled uncomfortably with the edge of her silk skirts. “This is already terribly complicated,” she mumbled despairingly. “I do not know how I will keep it all straight.”
Lord Foxglove reached out gently to take her hand. Clarimonde startled at the feeling of his skin on hers, before remembering that faeries mostly had no sense of modesty at all.
“All lies should be tailored to their use,” he reassured her. “Just as you choose different perfumes for different people, I will craft for you a lie that you can comfortably wear.”
It was odd, Clarimonde thought, how genuinely comforting she found those words. It had been far easier to confront the necessity of this theft than it was to actually carry it out. Silently, she admitted to herself that Winnie had been right to send her with Lord Foxglove; after all, he had been practicing deception even longer than she had been practicing magic.
“I believe you,” Clarimonde told him quietly. Gradually, however, she pulled back her hand from his, closing her fingers into her palm. The heat of his touch lingered pleasantly on her skin, even as she recalled his observation that mortals were foolishly susceptible to beauty.
I am not immune to his charm, Clarimonde thought. If I convince myself that I am, then he will find me easy to control.
“Let us start then with the truth,” Lord Foxglove told her. “That is where every good lie ought to start. You are Miss Clarimonde Betony. You are a powerful magician. I will be your faerie adviser, bound into your service.”
Clarimonde offered him a sceptical look. “A powerful magician?” she echoed. “I craft perfumes, Foxglove.”
The faerie arched one elegant white eyebrow. “Miss Winifred considers you to be more powerful than she is,” he pointed out, “and she studied at the last Lady Hollowvale’s feet. One of your perfumes subdued a fomórach. I have not known you long, Miss Betony—but if I were asked, then I could truthfully say that you might be the most powerful magician that I have ever met.”
Clarimonde stared at him. The statement seemed outlandish… but Lord Foxglove could not tell a direct lie, and he truly seemed to believe the words. Was it possible, she wondered, that this was why he had asked for her specifically?
“Here is where the lie comes in,” Lord Foxglove continued blithely, ignoring her reaction. “All of this must be about her, and not about you.“ He studied Clarimonde thoughtfully, tapping one long finger against his chin. Finally, he said: “Tell her this: You are such a powerful magician that you require nothing less than the most beautiful woman in the world to be your wife.”
Clarimonde startled at the suggestion, blinking furiously. Suddenly, she found herself re-evaluating everything she’d once assumed about Lord Foxglove’s powers of deception. “Are you mad?” she demanded incredulously. “Let us set aside—incredibly—the idea that I should propose marriage to some ancient evil thing. She will surely take the entire idea as a jest, if not an outright insult! Even wearing this—” She waved a hand at the gown beneath her travelling cloak. “—I am hardly an appropriate match for the most beautiful woman in the world!”
Foxglove shook his head. “Your appearance hardly matters,” he advised her. “What matters is the story. Why, just imagine—Tertia will be able to say that powerful magicians come from far and wide in order to beg for her hand.” His smile turned sly. “But you know that she will require proof of your worthiness. That is why you will follow an old tradition in order to win her favour. She may set for you three tasks, according to her stature; if you fulfil them all, then she must marry you.”
