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The goat nudged its nose curiously against the bed, as though inspecting it. “I intend to be a very dutiful servant,” it assured her. “The more dutiful a servant is, the more invisible they become. If I do my job correctly, in fact, then Tertia may forget that I am even here.”

Clarimonde considered the goat thoughtfully. “And that is why you are still an animal,” she observed. “Because you are trying to remain unobtrusive.”

The white goat glanced back at her over its shoulder. “That is correct,” it said. “Well—it is partially correct. I also suspect that Lady Hollowvale does not appreciate having other beautiful people about. Did you notice that her maids are all very plain?”

Clarimonde blinked. “Are they?” she asked. “I hadn’t noticed, either way.”

The goat tilted its narrow head at her. “You asked me to tell you the truth,” it said warily, “so I will take you at your word. You did not notice that the maids are plain because you are also plain. Naturally, they seem perfectly normal to you. But if I were hoping to bottle some living beauty, then I would find none here, apart from that of Lady Hollowvale.”

The observation did sting, just a little bit—but it was the cool, refreshing sting of honesty, which Clarimonde could not help but favourably compare to Lord Foxglove’s usual, overly warm manner. She turned the idea over in her mind and slowly nodded. “You’re right,” she said. “You are probably safest as an animal, whenever Tertia is about. But… if ever you cannot avoid being a person, then perhaps you should be someone plain as well.”

The goat fell silent.

Clarimonde waited patiently, now curious to hear the answer it would give.

Finally, Foxglove sighed heavily. “I have forgotten how,” he admitted.

Clarimonde’s eyebrows shot up. “Pardon?” she asked incredulously. “Do you mean to say that you cannot remember how to be anything other than beautiful?”

Foxglove scraped one hoof sheepishly at the marble floor. “I have not had occasion to be plain for ages now,” he said. “Everyone in Faerie knows that I can choose my appearance. If I show up with a strange eye or a crooked nose, then they assume that I am subtly insulting them.”

“Well, that is… ridiculous,” Clarimonde managed. The idea gave her a twinge of indignation on his behalf. “How terribly exhausting.”

The goat gave a soft, bleating laugh. “It really is,” he agreed. “I had not thought about it until now. I enjoy interesting faces, you know. I used to try on different ears and freckles, just for fun. And now, I find myself wishing that I had not lost the habit.” He turned his attention to the bedsheets once again. “But since we are speaking of useless, beautiful things… this bed does not look terribly comfortable, does it?”

Clarimonde grimaced at the golden bed. “I find myself wondering if I am being snubbed,” she admitted.

“Oh, goodness no,” the goat replied. “Great power is simply tasteless by nature. And the Leanansidhe is very powerful.” Foxglove nibbled experimentally at the cloth of gold sheets—then spat them out abruptly. “I care no more for this than you do. But complaints will only secure for us an even less hospitable room. For now, at least, we must endure.”

Clarimonde blinked at the reply, as something new occurred to her. “You have no room of your own,” she said. “Surely, you cannot be expected to sleep in the same bed with me?”

For the first time in her life, Clarimonde observed what it was like for a goat to shrug. “I must have done an excellent job of being an obedient faerie servant,” Foxglove said. “Likely, Lady Hollowvale believes that I will make a nest in the rafters, or else sleep at your feet like a hound.”

Clarimonde found herself so very aghast at these suggestions that she could not conjure up a reply. Foxglove offered up another bleating laugh. “This is ideal,” he told her. “Given the situation, we will have very few chances to speak plainly with each other. Here, at least, we have a modicum of privacy.”

Clarimonde pressed her face into her hands. She could not possibly debate the point. Nor did she really have the energy to do so; she had not slept a great deal in the last few days, and even the prospect of this terribly uncomfortable bed was enough to make her sway on her feet.

“I suppose,” she mumbled slowly, “that it would be more difficult for you to teach me the harp if we are in different bedrooms. I brought a harp with us from Witchwood Manor. I haven’t the first idea how to restring it; perhaps we could start there?”

The goat eyed her critically. “You are falling asleep as we speak, Miss Betony,” it observed. “Now does not strike me as the best time to engage in lessons. Do take some rest while you still can. Who knows when you will have another chance for it?”

Clarimonde winced. “You are… probably right,” she admitted tiredly. “I suppose we can put lessons off until tomorrow.”

The bed was barely better than frigid, given all of the gold that had been used in its construction. The mattress—if it could indeed be called one—had no straw or feathers. It, too, was tragically woven from gold.

Clarimonde did not dare dress down to her shift. Instead, she wore her wool gown and travelling cloak to bed, drawing them tightly around herself for warmth.

She did not have the heart to protest as a little white fox wormed its way into her arms beneath the blankets, shivering against her. Instead, she wrapped Foxglove up in her cloak and curled herself around him, as she nodded off to sleep.

It was still dark outside the windows of Clarimonde’s bedroom when someone knocked at the door.

For several seconds, she was too disoriented to think of rising from her bed. Where had she fallen asleep? And why was everything so silent? The walls of her room in London were so thin that she could normally hear every shift and sigh from the other women in the building. Presently, however, the only sound of note was that soft, polite knock at her door.

A warm, furry body squirmed its way free of her arms. Little claws click-clacked across the marble floor, then disappeared.

The door creaked open. A woman’s voice murmured something, too quietly for Clarimonde to make out the words.

“I will of course inform my mistress,” said Lord Foxglove. His warm voice carried slightly further, despite the sleepiness that touched it at the edges. “Thank you kindly for the message.”