Page 25

Clarimonde frowned into her scratchy golden pillow.

Oh no, she thought.

All of the horrible events of the last few days trickled back to mind, as Foxglove closed the door. The footsteps which returned to her bed were now distinctly human-sized.

“Good morning, Miss Betony,” Lord Foxglove addressed her, with surprising softness. “I hope you are awake?”

Clarimonde squinted up at him through half-lidded eyes. Foxglove’s long white hair was loose again; this time, however, it was hopelessly tangled. His formal attire was noticeably rumpled, and there was a hazy look in his gaze that she had never seen before.

The golden firelight of the hearth played over his face, softening the sharper edges of his features. For once, Clarimonde thought, he looked less like some airy spirit and more like something she could touch.

An odd smile curved her lips, despite her best efforts. “Mr Fox,” she told him. “Your hair is a crow’s nest.”

Lord Foxglove blinked. He combed his fingers through his hair with fumbling alarm, working hurriedly to straighten it.

“I did not mean that in a bad way,” Clarimonde mumbled absently. “I think that I must prefer messy things as well.”

The faerie sighed and dropped his hands. “I haven’t the time to fix it, regardless,” he said. “First, we must make you presentable. The entire household is expected to attend the Sunday service. You have little more than an hour to eat and dress.”

Clarimonde blinked. “Sunday service?” she echoed. “But we arrived here on Saturday morning.”

“We seem to have slept the day away and then some,” Lord Foxglove admitted. “But this is helpful timing. All of the guests and servants will be gone at once; I will be able to search the grounds in your absence.”

Clarimonde sat up slowly, rubbing at her eyes. “I cannot fathom why a creature like Tertia would insist on going to Sunday service,” she said dimly. “I have never heard of a Christian faerie before—let alone whatever she is.”

Lord Foxglove shrugged. “Perhaps she finds it novel,” he said. “I believe that she was put to sleep before the religion came into being.” He gently peeled the covers back and helped Clarimonde to her feet. “I will fix your hair and see if you have something formal to wear for the occasion.”

He left Clarimonde in order to search through the trunk at the foot of the dressing table. As he did, it occurred to her that it was still terribly inappropriate for a man to help her dress—but the scandalous memory of Lady Foxglove in her waistcoat and trousers was still fresh in her mind, and she decided instead that this was the lesser of two evils. Besides which, Clarimonde thought, there did not seem to be much call for propriety in this household, given the manner in which Lady Hollowvale had dressed herself on the evening of their arrival.

There was, at least, a screen in her bedroom which allowed her some privacy as she washed at the basin and reapplied her eau de cologne impériale.

“Aha!” Lord Foxglove said. “Your sister did send you with something formal and restrained. I must not be too surprised; she is always one step ahead of everyone else, after all.”

This, Clarimonde thought, was likely because Winnie so often read the future in her cards. But she kept the observation to herself, as Foxglove started handing her clothing over the top of the screen.

Lady Longfell had preferred more elaborate layers than Clarimonde generally did. There was a corset—slightly ill-fitted, but workable as long as she kept it loosely tied—as well as a cage crinoline, a twill bodice and skirt in shades of green, and a cambric pèlerine to hide her shoulders. There was even a pair of satin gloves that fit her tolerably well.

“Oh, very good!” Lord Foxglove said approvingly, as Clarimonde stepped out from behind the screen. “Perhaps a bit stuffy—but that is normal for church, I presume.”

He gestured her forwards and began to work at her hair, twisting it into a high chignon. Clarimonde could not make much sense of what he was doing; for all that there was a dressing table in the room, it had no corresponding mirror. In fact, she realised, she had seen no mirrors at all since her arrival.

“A room full of gold and yet no mirror,” she murmured. “What peculiar priorities.”

“Oh, you will find that mirrors are very rare in Faerie,” Lord Foxglove said absently. “They can be dangerous, you see. One never knows what they might do.”

Clarimonde heard an odd smile in his voice. It took her a moment to realise that it was not at all related to their discussion of mirrors. Though she had long since noted Foxglove’s talent for styling hair, it had suddenly occurred to her that he might genuinely enjoy the endeavour.

Well of course he does, she thought dimly. Why else would he keep his hair so long? That is entirely his own choice, isn’t it?

“I really must find oil for your hair,” Foxglove murmured. “I am certain that someone here will have some on hand.”

Clarimonde could not help smiling at the floor in return, as he settled her bonnet into place and tied it beneath her hair. “We have other, more important things to find in Hollowvale,” she reminded him. “Though I do appreciate the thought.”

By the time she had turned back to the dressing table, there was a pale white polecat sitting upon it. Clarimonde offered out one arm so that it could scurry up her shoulder, before she headed out for the hallway beyond.

The corridor was still dark and quiet, flickering with barely adequate blue candlelight. Though the grandfather clock there seemed to be ticking away, its hour still showed midnight. This time, however, Clarimonde was awake enough to notice that the walls here were covered with artwork.

The first painting she passed depicted Tertia sitting in a vibrant green garden, clad in a gauzy white gown. A subtle halo had been painted to light her from behind, as she comforted a weeping man in her arms.