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Clarimonde squinted through the darkness. “Is that… Prince Albert?” she mumbled.

The polecat on her shoulder yawned. “It does look like him,” it agreed. “How is he doing, by the way?”

Clarimonde blinked. “Oh,” she said sheepishly. “I suppose you have been trapped for several years. I fear that he has passed away. The Queen misses him very much.”

“Ah,” said Foxglove. He seemed much less affected by this revelation than most English people would have been. “How very sad. Well, it appears that Lady Hollowvale is comforting him in paradise. She looks very saintly, don’t you think?”

Clarimonde grimaced at the suggestion. “Good lord,” she muttered beneath her breath. “I begin to understand why it is that Tertia has taken so well to Christianity.” Another thought occurred to her belatedly, and she blanched. “She was wearing something like a crown of thorns last night,” she said. “You don’t really think she was trying to compare herself to…”

“You will have to finish your thought, Miss Betony,” the polecat told her absently. “I have very little concept of mortal religion.”

Clarimonde winced. “Never mind,” she said. “The idea is apostasy. It does not shock me that a faerie would entertain it—but a mortal artist should know better.”

There were more sketches and paintings as they travelled down the corridor. All of them featured the Leanansidhe in various benevolent poses, touched by hints of the divine. There were statues too, set in gallery alcoves along the wall, as well as a single painted vase.

By the time they had reached the spiral staircase leading downwards, Clarimonde was very nearly sick with seeing Tertia’s face, despite the woman’s admittedly unearthly beauty. The sheer vanity of the display was even more appalling than the solid gold furniture in her bedroom had been.

The thought was driven from her mind, however, as she descended into the abbey once again.

Foggy sunlight streamed into the nave from every window, lighting up corners that had previously been shrouded in shadow. Here on the ground floor, it was very clearly Sunday morning—and the banquet table was still set.

Today, it had been laden with boxty bread and goose dumplings, as well as several fresh piles of soul cakes. Jugs of coffee, tea, and apple cider had been set out, along with bowls of hazelnuts, dried apples, and cranberries.

At first, Clarimonde thought there must have been remnants from Friday evening’s roast goose. But no, she realised—it had been replaced by another entire goose.

She recognised many of the people at the table from the evening of her arrival. Some of them, she thought, were still wearing the exact same rumpled clothing… though most of them were dressed for church.

Clarimonde crept quietly for the end of the banquet table, struck with sudden discomfort. She took a seat next to a dark-haired young woman, dressed in modest brown wool and a cotton pèlerine. There was a mournful severity to her features, as she sipped at her morning coffee.

“Oh,” said the woman, as Clarimonde drew her attention. “You are new here, aren’t you? I have not seen you before.”

Clarimonde studied the other woman intently. She did not seem to be as tired as the others at the table—though there was still something distracted about her expression. “I am Miss Clarimonde Betony,” she said. “I came here Friday evening. Or… perhaps Saturday morning. I fear that I have been sleeping all of this time.”

The dark-haired woman offered her a hesitant smile. “I am Miss Alexandra Molinari,” she said. “On good days, I consider myself a to be a poet. What art do you practice, Miss Betony?”

Clarimonde blinked. “Is everyone here required to practise an art?” she asked.

Miss Molinari’s brows drew together. “Well… I do not know that it is required,” she admitted. “But so many of us are here due to Lady Hollowvale’s generous patronage. Is that not why you are here, Miss Betony?”

Clarimonde shook her head. “I did come here in order to request something from Lady Hollowvale,” she said. “But I do not seek her patronage.“ Her stomach grumbled, and she reached out for a soul cake—but the polecat on her shoulder hissed in her ear, and she remembered that Tertia had not explicitly offered her food from the table.

Miss Molinari startled as she noticed the polecat. “Is that your pet?” she asked. “How odd!”

Clarimonde steadied herself again and cleared her throat. “Miss Molinari,” she said firmly, “it is still midnight on the first floor of this abbey—a first floor which should not exist at all, by the way. As far as I can tell, the feast in this nave has continued on indefinitely while I slept. Lady Hollowvale herself is quite obviously inhuman. And yet… it is the polecat on my shoulder that you find most odd?”

Miss Molinari frowned. For just a moment, the dazed expression on her face lessened, and she seemed to focus on Clarimonde more intently.

“Well,” the other woman said very slowly, “I suppose that Lady Hollowvale is a bit eccentric, as most wealthy women are. A polecat is not so very far-fetched, with that in mind.”

Clarimonde considered briefly whether she ought to press her point. Before she could decide, however, Miss Molinari turned—along with all of the others at the table—as Lady Hollowvale descended the stairs.

Tertia was… somewhat dressed for Sunday service. She had clothed herself in white muslin, which stood out sharply against the other muted colours gathered at the table—and while she wore a pèlerine, it had been woven from near-transparent lace, which rather seemed to defeat the purpose of wearing one at all.

As Clarimonde saw her, she nearly managed to forget her previous disgust at the profusion of vainglorious artwork in the corridor on the first floor. For a moment, as Tertia bathed in the morning light, her sickly pale skin seemed luminous, and her blood red lips reminded of the pomegranates that had marked her crown. She was the sort of breathless picture that could move even the hardest of hearts—indeed, a beauty so profound that it was nearly a spiritual experience.

From far across the nave, Lady Hollowvale turned her attention upon Clarimonde—and smiled.

The blessing of her personal attention was so overwhelming that Clarimonde nearly wilted in her chair. Again, she found herself rescued by the perfume that she wore at her wrists; the bergamot calmed her, and the bitter orange stiffened her spine against that otherworldly beauty.