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Clarimonde studied the other woman intently. Lord Foxglove, she had noticed, always paid very close attention to the people that he flattered. But what, she wondered, was she meant to see that might assist her in winning over the beautiful, contemptuous creature before her? Tertia’s features were a useless puzzle box to her—entirely unhelpful to her lies.

I only have the truth to serve me, Clarimonde thought. It will have to do.

She shook her head at Tertia. “What need have you of gold or jewels?” she asked. “You have those, I presume. And you are already Lady Hollowvale; any mortal kingdom would be tawdry by comparison.” She lifted her chin. “You have some other heart’s desire—something beyond the knowledge of most mortal suitors. I will not be foolish enough to guess it blindly. I am here instead to learn its nature, and to craft it for you with my magic. Offer me three tasks, according to tradition. I will solve them for you, and thus prove my place beside you.”

Very slowly, as Clarimonde spoke, the callous amusement drained from Tertia’s lovely face. A strange hunger took its place—and for the first time, Clarimonde thought she understood what it was that Foxglove saw when he manipulated the people around him. Had her own face shown that hunger, when he touched her hair and complimented her perfumes?

She had said something useful to Tertia, in order to inspire that reaction. Just what it was, she could not say; but perhaps, she thought, with enough time and opportunity, she would be able to uncover it.

The Leanansidhe rose from her place upon the altar, now heedless of the artist at the canvas. Gradually, she crossed the distance to Clarimonde until she stood within arm’s reach, clad in little else but pomegranates and sheer muslin.

“I do have a heart’s desire,” Tertia said softly. “No one has ever offered it to me before. No one but you has even asked what it might be.” She lifted one pale hand to Clarimonde’s cheek, as her reddish eyes burned with that insatiable hunger. Her skin was nearly as cold as the graves outside of the abbey. “I can feel your power, Clarimonde Betony. It is enough, perhaps, to grant you what it is you seek. At least… I will give you your three tasks, and see how well you please me.”

Clarimonde could not help shivering at her touch; the Leanansidhe’s fingers seemed as though they might reach past her skin entirely, to caress something inside of her. But just as Tertia drew her in, Clarimonde saw the other woman pulled closer in return, as the perfume on her wrists did its work.

The moment did not linger. Tertia pulled away with another lovely smile. Where her hand had once touched Clarimonde’s cheek, there was now an awful, empty absence. Hollowvale’s lady reached up to the crown atop her head then, and plucked a pomegranate from it, offering the fruit to Clarimonde.

“You must be hungry, Clarimonde,” Tertia said sweetly. “Won’t you have something to eat?”

Clarimonde met her reddish eyes directly. “I would say that depends greatly,” she replied, “upon whether or not I am your guest.”

Tertia laughed again. This time, the sound was delighted, rather than contemptuous. “You are!” she declared. “Yes, you are my guest, dear Clarimonde. I am so very pleased that you came knocking at my door.”

Clarimonde offered the Leanansidhe a pleasant smile in return, as she peeled away the skin of the pomegranate and took a bite.

CHAPTER 8

“I am sad to say that I have never fully understood the laws of hospitality. I have had ample chance to learn them, of course, but they still seem nonsensical to me. I try to compensate by never inviting anyone beneath my roof unless I am willing to endure their company for the rest of my natural life.”

LORD ELIAS WILDER TO MISS CLARIMONDE BETONY, AGE 10

“Yes, of course that includes you, Miss Betony.”

LORD ELIAS WILDER TO MISS CLARIMONDE BETONY, AGE 10

One of Tertia’s dazed and weary maids soon left in order to prepare a bedroom for Clarimonde’s use. To her great surprise, Lord Foxglove volunteered to retrieve her trunk from the bottom of that miserable staircase and settle it into the room. This burst of generosity was so unlike him that Clarimonde briefly considered handling the matter herself—but she was not strictly certain that she was capable of making the climb again, in her current state. As such, she watched the little white bird flutter away, silently praying that her so-called faerie servant was merely eager to escape the presence of their host.

The sun had just begun to rise outside, as Tertia’s maid returned in order to lead Clarimonde up the stairs to her bedroom. The weak light of dawn filtered in through the ground floor’s windows—but the windows of the first floor looked out upon an entirely different vista, where fog-shrouded night still persisted. More eerie blue candlelight pushed back the darkness where it could, lighting their way down the hall to the guest wing. As they walked, they passed a tall grandfather clock that claimed the hour to be midnight.

The large, luxurious bedroom which had been appointed to Clarimonde was decorated with a bewildering array of overly expensive furnishings. The door handles were all wrought from gold—but really, that was barely the beginning. The black marble floors were veined with gold, which blossomed into starbursts at her feet. The hearth burned with metallic golden fire. And in fact, every piece of furniture—from the chairs in the sitting room to the grand bed frame in the room beyond them—seemed to be a solid piece of gold.

The bedding was all cut from cloth of gold. Clarimonde winced as she rubbed the cold, abrasive fabric between her fingers. How, she wondered, was she expected to manage any sleep here?

An odd knock sounded at the bedroom door, briefly distracting her from the problem. Clarimonde paced back to open it and discovered that she had been visited by a very lovely, well-groomed white goat, with her trunk tied to its back.

She stared down at the creature for a surreal, extended moment, as her mind tried to catch up to the situation.

“Well?” the goat bleated. “Do let me inside. I don’t particularly fancy carrying this downstairs again.”

Clarimonde hastily opened the door wider, stepping out of the goat’s way. It trotted inside, casually clip-clopping over golden rugs as it made its way into the room with the bed.

Foxglove waited patiently as Clarimonde untied the trunk from his back and set it down at the foot of the dressing table. He did not, however, immediately return to human form.

“Thank you for carrying my things,” she told him politely, even as she popped open the trunk in order to surreptitiously verify its contents.

“You are welcome, O Great Mistress of Magic,” Foxglove said. It was particularly difficult to tell whether he was being pert when he was a goat, but Clarimonde suspected that he’d spoken the words with good humour. “Why else would you keep me as your faerie servant?”

Clarimonde frowned down at her trunk, as she finished accounting for everything that should have been there. “Is that why you volunteered to carry it up?” she asked him. “You are simply playing your role?”