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Clarimonde grimaced. “I suppose that we have found what it is that we came looking for, then,” she said reluctantly. “There is light coming from inside. I wonder if someone is actually awake at this hour.” She chewed on her lip consideringly. “Are there proper visiting hours in Faerie? Should we return in the morning?”

Lord Foxglove scoffed. The sound was particularly strange, coming from a bird. “If you are welcome in Faerie,” he said, “then you will be welcome at any hour. If you are not welcome, then the hour will not save you.” He paused thoughtfully. “But we are not in Faerie right now. Or perhaps we are halfway in Faerie. I do not know if that changes things.”

Clarimonde rubbed at her forehead. “This is exactly why I normally avoid faeries,” she groused. “None of this makes any sense, Mr Fox.” Nonetheless, she squared her shoulders and glanced over the abbey, searching for an entrance. “A powerful magician might arrive dramatically at the witching hour. We are a bit late for that—but whatever this hour is, it will do.”

She circled the building slowly, clambering awkwardly over the wet grass in boots that had been made for city streets. The edge of her blue wool gown became damp, at which point she became grateful that she had changed out of that silly scarlet silk. Eventually, the light of her parasol fell upon a sturdy set of wooden double doors on the western side of the abbey.

Clarimonde paused before the doors, trying to compose herself. For some reason, her heart was beating madly in her chest; belatedly, she realised that she was about to attempt the most crucial deception of her life.

“Take a breath,” Lord Foxglove chittered from her shoulder. “Goodness, you look terrified. That simply will not do.”

Clarimonde swallowed. “I am an awful liar,” she whispered. “This will go terribly.” She clenched her fingers into her palms. “Must it really be me? You could propose an engagement with Tertia instead. I could be your… mortal servant.”

The faerie bird gave a tinkling laugh. “Absolutely not,” it said. “Balor’s children see all faeries as beneath them—we are chattel in their eyes. But they are wary of mortals, Miss Betony; that is why you have been hunted, and branded a black magician. They remember that it was a mortal magician who once turned the tide against them.”

Clarimonde took a deep breath, trying to steady herself. She thought briefly of the card inside her pocket, wondering if she should now reveal it; perhaps the card would warn her to leave before it was too late.

As she reached into her pocket, however, she found the brass pocket watch instead. And though she could not see it, she knew the words engraved upon the inside of its lid.

Here is your time.

Once, Clarimonde had chosen to spend her time on Bellamira. But Bellamira was now gone. What else was worth her precious time, if not the grumpy magician who had once taught her magic? Somewhere within this realm, there was a man asleep upon a bier, and a legendary harp that could still wake him.

Somehow, Clarimonde thought, she would muddle through this. Though she was arguably the most terrible person for the job, she was still the only possible choice. She would simply need to rely upon the talents and resources that she did have at her disposal.

Clarimonde set her jaw and settled her valise upon the ground, rummaging inside it. Lord Foxglove peered curiously into the valise, shuffling across her shoulder in order to get a closer look as she extracted a tiny vial. “And what is this perfume?” the bird asked eagerly. “I do so love seeing your work.”

“This one was an attempt to imitate someone else’s formula,” Clarimonde admitted. “I secured a sample of eau de cologne impériale and attempted to recreate it. There is some bergamot, for calm assurance; bitter orange, for confidence; lemon oil, to encourage friendship in those around the wearer.” She dabbed a small amount of the perfume onto her wrists, letting the scent waft upwards. As it soaked into her senses, the tension in her body fled, chased away by the magic she had woven into the mixture.

“A perfume fit for an empress!” Lord Foxglove observed, with obvious approval. “Yes, that should do nicely. Do you know—I think that you smell powerful now. I did not realise that was possible!”

Clarimonde returned the vial carefully to her valise. Then, she straightened her posture and lifted her arm to knock smartly at the wooden door.

Lord Foxglove fell silent as they waited in the fog, watching the door with keen expectation. Clarimonde had to knock several more times—a circumstance which might have given her anxiety, had she not been wearing her current perfume. Eventually, however, one of the wooden doors opened, setting loose a sudden cascade of flickering blue candlelight.

The man who had opened the door was clearly a servant who’d been finely dressed for some formal event; his rich green coat boasted silver piping along its wrist cuffs, and his Wellingtons had been shined to perfection. Despite the neat bow at his hair, however, the man looked pale and tired; dark circles had taken up residence beneath his eyes, offering a sickly contrast to his carefully curated clothing.

If the footman thought that there was anything at all odd about a single woman come calling at this hour of the night, then his worries did not show upon his face. He looked down at Clarimonde with a perfectly neutral expression. “Good evening,” he greeted her. “Or perhaps good morning. I do not know the time. How might I help you, Your Ladyship?”

Clarimonde blinked. Even in her fine wool gown, she could not imagine being mistaken for nobility. A moment later, however, she remembered that she was wearing an empress’s perfume, and she cleared her throat. “My name is Miss Clarimonde Betony,” she said. “I am a powerful magician. I have business with Lady Hollowvale.”

The bird on Clarimonde’s shoulder flinched instinctively as she spoke her full name aloud. It soon fluffed its feathers, however, and leaned closer to her ear in order to speak. “More flattery,” it whispered there urgently. “Mention her beauty.”

Clarimonde reached up to rub at her ear, where Lord Foxglove’s feathers had tickled her. “I am told that she is the most beautiful woman in the world,” she added quickly. “It is my dearest hope to look upon her for myself. Please tell her that I have travelled very far for that purpose.”

The footman did manage a moment of consternation as Clarimonde called herself a magician—but his face soon clouded over again with vague confusion, as though the troubling thought had been smoothed away. “Lady Hollowvale is indeed the most beautiful woman in the world,” he agreed distantly. “Any stories you have heard would surely fall short of reality.” An odd shiver overcame him at the thought, though Clarimonde suspected that he was not entirely aware of the reaction. “Her Ladyship is currently otherwise engaged,” he said then. “But I will convey your arrival to her. Please do come inside while you wait.”

He opened the door wider with invitation. Clarimonde closed her parasol and picked up her valise, then stepped across the threshold into the abbey.

Candles saturated every available surface, burning with that uncanny blue firelight. Even that glow died away before it could reach the ceiling, however, which seemed much taller than even the abbey’s great size should have allowed. Clarimonde had stepped into something that looked like a nave—but any pews in the space had been replaced by a long banquet table, still set with the leftovers of a garish, mouthwatering feast.

Clarimonde settled into a chair at the far end of the table as she waited, trying to ignore the delicious autumnal spread. There were bowls of spiced pumpkin soup, still uncleared, sitting next to a half-picked roast goose and several piles of soul cakes.

Other figures still sat at the banquet table here and there, murmuring idly to one another. Many were dressed in rumpled clothing that had clearly seen several days of wear. All of them wore the same exhausted, lightly befuddled expression as the footman who had answered the door.

“I still cannot believe how easily you give your name,” Lord Foxglove fretted, in his tiny bird’s voice. “Now that the footman has heard it from your lips, he will speak it to Tertia, and she will surely use it!”

Clarimonde eyed the food before her with quiet wariness. Though she had never visited Faerie before this year, she knew very well that you were not supposed to eat anything there unless you were an acknowledged guest and your host had given you leave to eat it. “I see no reason to withhold my name,” she murmured back. “It is who I am, Mr Fox. I may not always like who I am—but it is still the truth, and I refuse to hide from it. The people that I meet must do with that as they will.”