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“Are you mad?” Clarimonde hissed at him.

The man’s smile did not falter this time. “I have been accused of such before,” he said. “But madness is a point of view, I often say.”

Clarimonde drew herself up behind the counter. “Mr… whatever-your-name-is—” she began.

“Foxglove,” the man interrupted her helpfully. “And it is Lord Foxglove, of course—though you had no way to know that. I forgive you, madam, for the oversight.”

Each successive word that dripped from his lips only stoked the alarm in Clarimonde’s stomach to greater heights. “Of course you’d be a lord,” she muttered tightly. She didn’t bother to examine that idea too closely, however, given the exigency of the situation in which she’d found herself.

“Perhaps you have been gone from England for too long,” Clarimonde continued bluntly. “The current Lord Sorcier has outlawed most forms of folk magic—or rather, he has made it criminal for any commoner to practice magic, when one reads between the lines. I cannot sell you any magical perfumes. I would be called a black magician; they would drag me to gaol.”

Lord Foxglove laughed. It was a lovely, pleasant laugh that would have warmed her blood if she had been anyone else. That beautiful laugh only heightened Clarimonde’s unease. In her experience, beautiful people rarely meant her well.

“I did not say that I wished to purchase a magical perfume,” Foxglove assured her. “What foolishness. I said that I would like one of the magical perfumes behind your counter; I will not pay for it. Well… not with money.” His cold blue eyes were merry with amusement. “As I flew here, I saw a dark shape heading down Oxford Street. Even now, it slouches its way towards your shop. Give me the perfume that I seek, and I will see you away from here before the creature arrives.”

Clarimonde pressed her lips together. Faeries could not lie, she knew—and all of her instincts still assured her that Lord Foxglove was a faerie. But something about his manner continued to trouble her in a way that she could not ignore. He was… deceptive, she decided. Somewhere in his offer, he had lied to her by telling her the truth.

If I give him the perfume, Clarimonde realised, he will have proof that I am a magician. He could do any number of terrible things with that proof.

And what dark shape was headed towards the shop? Perhaps Lord Foxglove had seen an old man in a black coat. He hadn’t told Clarimonde that the shape was dangerous. Certainly, it could not be any more dangerous than asking a faerie to ‘see her away’ from the shop.

Clarimonde calmed her heartbeat forcibly, curling her fingers against her palms behind the counter. “I fear that you have wasted your time, such as it is,” she told Foxglove. “I cannot give you any magical perfume, Your Lordship.”

Foxglove frowned at her. The merriment in his blue eyes dimmed into consternation. “We really do not have time for these games, Clarimonde Betony,” he said slowly. “I do not wish to meet what hunts you⁠—”

For the second time that morning, the shop’s door opened.

The shape that entered was indeed both dark and foreboding. At first, Clarimonde mistook it for a living shadow, given the way that it blotted out the daylight. After a moment, however, her eyes adjusted, and she understood that it was a man—or else, at the very least, shaped like a man. Dark-haired, deathly pale, and ever-so-slightly unkempt, Clarimonde’s newest client was nearly as tall as Lord Foxglove, though slightly broader in the shoulders. His sombre gentleman’s attire seemed subtly ill-fitting, as though the clothing had trouble containing him.

The newcomer smiled tightly at Clarimonde, showing off his very white teeth. “I would like to speak with the person who makes this shop’s perfumes,” he said. His voice was sonorous and deep, with some intangible quality that made her skin crawl.

Clarimonde glanced instinctively towards Lord Foxglove—but of course, the faerie had entirely disappeared. She internally cursed both herself and the missing faerie, before raising her eyes to the new arrival once again.

“Mr Beagle does not generally speak with clients himself,” Clarimonde said. “If it suits you, sir, I could take down a message for him.” Even as she spoke, she started silently calculating her best means of escape. What this man was, precisely, she had little idea—but Lord Foxglove had admitted far too late that he had no wish to meet him, and Clarimonde had detected no deception in that statement.

Thankfully, Clarimonde had always been very practised at paranoia. Every morning lately, she had risen with the knowledge that today might be the day that she was finally taken into custody. Even now, there was a sturdy leather valise behind the counter which contained her most useful perfumes, along with a small pile of shillings and pence—certainly enough to purchase a train ticket out of London.

“Mr Beagle will be pleased to hear that I am not a client, then,” the man informed her. “My name is Mr Gabriel Brand. I serve at the pleasure of the Lord Sorcier, under whose authority I must insist on asking Mr Beagle some questions.”

Clarimonde’s body went cold; all thought of escape abruptly fled her mind, as she realised the implications of this statement. Somehow, she had been careless enough to draw attention to the shop. If she left now, it was entirely possible that poor, distracted Mr Beagle would be branded a black magician in her place.

Clarimonde was not fond of very many people—nor were very many people terribly fond of her. Mr Beagle had long been a glaring exception to this rule in both respects. She could not possibly bring herself to leave him in such dire circumstances.

“Ah, well.” Mr Beagle’s high, nasally voice sounded just behind Clarimonde, startling her out of her thoughts. “I knew this day would come. Let’s not belabour the matter, sir. I am the black magician you are searching for, of course.”

Clarimonde whirled in place, staring at her employer. Mr Beagle had roused himself from his compounding room to look in on the store. He spoke mildly from behind his overlarge spectacles, pulling off his gloves and tucking them into his apron as though he were preparing to go for a stroll outside.

Horror rose within Clarimonde as she absorbed Mr Beagle’s claim. “Absolutely not!” she burst out. “Shame on you, Mr Beagle. We both know you haven’t a drop of magic to your name.” She glanced back at Mr Brand quickly. “I am the magician you are searching for. I will prove it in a heartbeat.”

Mr Brand arched an eyebrow at them both. “I will admit,” he said, “I expected far more trouble extracting a confession. I cannot say that I have ever before had too many confessions. This promises to be an interesting morning⁠—”

Whatever Mr Brand intended to say next was interrupted, as a small white fox streaked out from behind the counter to close its jaws upon his leg.

Mr Brand let out a low sound of surprise. Though dark blood dribbled from the injury, however, he seemed less pained than Clarimonde would have expected. Nevertheless, the sudden appearance of the white fox had certainly distracted him; he lashed out quickly with his other foot, grazing the animal across the ribs as it darted away again. A tiny yelp resulted, and Clarimonde nearly launched herself across the counter with indignation—but Mr Beagle had caught her firmly by the elbow and begun to usher her towards the compounding room.

“Lord Foxglove assured me that he could handle himself,” Mr Beagle told Clarimonde calmly. “He said there is a carriage waiting in the mews, out back.”

Clarimonde lunged to grab her leather valise. As she did, she saw that Mr Brand had recovered himself with unnatural speed. He rounded the counter far too quickly, closing his fingers painfully in her hair. His eyes were just as black and terrible as the shadow that he cast behind him. Clarimonde might have expected to see anger in his expression as he hauled her back—but there was nothing in those eyes but placid darkness, and that was somehow even worse.