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This response sent the little white bird into an oddly abrupt silence. At first, it was a pleasant reprieve—but as time ticked by, Clarimonde found herself drumming her fingers upon the table, uncomfortably aware of Lord Foxglove’s sudden restraint.

Just as she was opening her mouth to prompt him back into conversation, however, the footman returned.

“Lady Hollowvale cannot leave her current position,” he informed Clarimonde, “but she will see you, nevertheless. Please follow me, Miss Betony.”

Clarimonde rose to follow him further into the nave. A few of the people at the banquet table glanced over at her as she passed, with speculation in their eyes.

Broad stairways at the back of the abbey led up to a second floor which should not have existed. At first, Clarimonde thought that she was being taken up those stairs—but the footman paused instead at a respectful distance away from the nave’s altar, which had been left intact between them. Presently, there was a woman sitting upon the altar, perfectly posed and still.

The very first sight of her stole Clarimonde’s breath. Had the perfume at her wrists not granted her such extra strength and confidence, in fact, she might have fallen to her knees.

The new Lady Hollowvale was lithe and lively, with an attractive flush in her otherwise pale features. Her long black hair spilled loose about her, carefully arranged in order to frame her body to best effect. Her only adornments seemed to be a basket-like crown, piled high with lush pomegranates, and a transparent muslin gown, which did nothing at all to hide the nakedness beneath it. A dark red dribble of pomegranate juice had trickled down the side of her temple.

The light was warm and golden here—very unlike the ghostly blue cast that illuminated the rest of the nave. It lingered upon the woman on the altar like a caress, encouraging the eye to each and every place that politeness would have otherwise dictated avoidance.

Clarimonde stared openly at her, briefly unable to summon up a more sensible reaction. A hot flush swept over her all at once, as though someone had emptied a bucket of warm water over her head.

The woman on the altar noted Clarimonde’s gaze with a pleased smile that laid lovely dimples into her mouth. “Miss Betony, was it?” she said. Her voice was sweet and clear, and reminiscent of amber-coloured honey. “I would have come to greet you—but I fear that this painting has gone overlong. Mr Bligh is utterly absorbed, and I cannot bear to interrupt him while he is so captive to his art.”

Belatedly, Clarimonde became aware of a blond man in a loose linen smock, sitting behind a large canvas. His posture was somehow both exhausted and exuberant, as he alternated his glance between the painting and the woman before him. In fact, Clarimonde suspected that the artist had no awareness of her presence at all, despite the conversation happening around him.

Lord Foxglove’s beak pricked at Clarimonde’s ear, startling her back to clarity—and she realised that she, too, had fallen into a daze.

Her first instinct was to bow—but she caught herself just in time, remembering that she was supposed to be this beautiful woman’s equal. Instead, she inclined her head respectfully.

“It is Miss Betony,” she agreed, summoning as much confidence into her voice as she could muster. “Though I must beg that you call me Clarimonde. And you are Lady Hollowvale, of course. Truly, your beauty is beyond compare. I believed the stories, of course—but I admit, I did not fully comprehend them until now.”

The woman’s smile took on a soft, beatific shine at the words. “How very kind of you,” she sighed. “Well, then—you must call me Tertia. That much is only fair.” She considered Clarimonde a moment longer, with a curious expression on her face. “You are not the first to say such things… but you are the first to speak them with a faerie on your shoulder.”

Lord Foxglove tensed his talons. For a moment, Clarimonde wondered if he might try to hide behind her hair.

“You have an excellent eye for detail,” Clarimonde said calmly. “This is my faerie servant; I have bound him to my will.” The lie burned uncomfortably on her tongue—but she buried the strange feeling with another deep breath of her perfume.

“How adorable,” Tertia cooed. “Oh, look how he tries to hide! He must be terribly shy.”

Clarimonde bit her tongue on the reply that she would have offered, under other circumstances. She had only known Lord Foxglove for a few days now—but she was absolutely certain that no one in their right mind would ever call him ‘shy’.

“I do my best to forget his existence, unless I happen to require him,” Clarimonde said dryly. That much, she thought, was absolutely true. “I would much rather speak of you.”

This declaration went over exceedingly well; Tertia’s smile deepened, and she laughed with barely feigned modesty. “Oh, only if we must,” she allowed. “What would you say about me, Clarimonde? I am a captive audience for the moment, as you can clearly see.”

The sound of her true name on Tertia’s lips was… startling. It sent a pleasant shiver down Clarimonde’s spine. The sparrow on her shoulder tensed again, as though Tertia had pronounced a doom upon them both.

But Clarimonde drew in another long breath, forcibly clearing the haze from her mind. “I am here to ask for your hand in marriage,” she said. “I believe that such an arrangement would benefit us both.”

Tertia blinked.

It did not terribly surprise Clarimonde, a moment later, when she burst into peals of lovely, tinkling laughter.

Clarimonde had accepted long ago that she was prone to awkwardness when interacting with strangers, on those rare occasions when she was not entirely beneath their notice. That acceptance, though, was not enough to fully erase the sting when those around her showed their obvious disdain.

Old injuries twinged within her, as the Leanansidhe looked down upon her from the altar with contemptuous amusement. But just for a moment, the reaction had allowed something dark and ugly to peek out from behind her lovely, otherworldly smile. The steel in Clarimonde’s spine hardened as she recognised the darkness, and she cooled her expression to something cold and neutral.

Finally, Tertia’s laughter subsided. Her smile had turned patronising. “My dear Clarimonde,” she said soothingly. “You cannot know how many mortals have come begging for my hand. I commend you for your courage—but tragically, I must decline your offer.”

“Must you?” Clarimonde replied, with a hint of flatness. “I suspect that you are not compelled to do so. But you have yet to even hear my offer.”

Tertia’s eyes glimmered in the candlelight. There was, Clarimonde noted, a faintly reddish cast to them. “I have been offered gold and jewels,” she said, “and mighty kingdoms beyond measure. But I will hear you, Clarimonde. After all… you have come all this way.”