Page 28

“Is that some creature which lives in Hollowvale?” Clarimonde asked Tertia carefully.

Tertia had chosen to walk arm-in-arm with Clarimonde, doting upon her newest guest with easy, effervescent charm. Now, she batted away Clarimonde’s question with a soft laugh. “Oh, that,” Tertia said. “I haven’t the faintest idea what it is, but Hollowvale enjoys its presence. It has never troubled me terribly; it always flees when I come near to it.”

Clarimonde looked out into the gloom, straining to catch another glimpse of the shadow—but it had fully disappeared again. “Does it trouble your guests at all?” she asked. “If they are alone in Hollowvale, I mean to say.”

Tertia laughed. “Oh, how would I know?” she asked. “You must tell me if it ever tries to devour you, though—I am so curious what it might look like.” She moved swiftly past the subject, obviously eager to return to the matter of Sunday service. “I do so adore Reverend Shaw’s homilies; I find myself dwelling on them for hours and hours afterwards. He is such an artful speaker. Oh! We should sit down after this, the two of us together, and discuss today’s service. I can have you for a private sitting in my boudoir. We shall have drinking chocolate—it will be so charming!”

The sight of the church rising up ahead of them had raised Tertia’s spirits even further. Her enthusiasm was infectious. Though many of the people in their party were hollow-cheeked and sickly, they had all been touched by her feverish energy, which seemed to temporarily revive them.

Clarimonde was not entirely immune to that fever. She could not help a certain traitorous pleasure at the understanding that she had secured such envious attention from the woman who held every eye behind them. On some level, Clarimonde was aware that Tertia had applied herself to the matter of securing her new visitor’s unconditional trust and affection in much the same way that Foxglove had plied Clarimonde so far. But it was difficult to remember how capricious Tertia’s regard might be while the Leanansidhe smiled and laughed and clung to Clarimonde’s arm, as though they were already intimate confidants.

“A private sitting with drinking chocolate does sound lovely,” Clarimonde found herself saying—and tragically, she meant the words entirely, with the Leanansidhe’s attention full upon her. “Why, there is nothing in the world that I would rather do.”

Miss Molinari had been trailing along behind them like a ghost—beset by an obvious, gentle consternation at her implied exclusion. But suddenly, she dared to interrupt. “After we have visited with Mr Bligh, of course,” Miss Molinari said anxiously. “The nurse was with him when I left. She is awfully worried over his condition.”

Tertia barely seemed to notice the interjection—but Clarimonde turned her head to frown at Miss Molinari. “Mr Bligh?” she repeated. “I remember the name. Was he the artist who was here when I arrived?”

Miss Molinari fretted at the fingers of her gloves, which seemed somewhat tatty from the habit. “He is a wonderful painter,” she agreed. “Perhaps the best that I have ever met. Though of course, we are all made better by Lady Hollowvale’s encouragements.”

This statement did catch Tertia’s attention, and she smiled back at Miss Molinari with a glimmer of fresh affection. “It is my calling to help others grow their art,” the Leanansidhe said. “I am so gratified to know that I have succeeded in some part.”

Miss Molinari was so caught by Tertia’s sudden engagement that all awareness seemed to briefly drain from her sharp, severe features; all that remained was a raw and terrible longing, so obvious that Clarimonde could not bear to look at it directly. “In great part,” Miss Molinari corrected Tertia shyly. “You must not downplay your generosity, Lady Hollowvale. To me, at least, it has been something of a miracle.”

Clarimonde flinched at the words, given their current destination. But Tertia’s grip on her arm loosened for the first time since they had stepped outside, and it was clear that the lady’s dedication to wooing Clarimonde had just been tested by Miss Molinari’s flattery. “You are a poet, I believe?” Tertia mused. “I really must take time to read your work.”

Miss Molinari brightened with emotion. The touch of pleasure softened the severity of her face, drawing a tiny smile to her lips. “I could recite it for you,” she offered. “Perhaps we could have a private sitting⁠—”

“You were speaking of Mr Bligh,” Clarimonde reminded Miss Molinari, with a hint of shortness.

Miss Molinari blinked—then flushed with embarrassment. “Oh yes,” she said, “I was. He is doing so poorly. I thought that a visit from Lady Hollowvale might lift his spirits. He does so cherish her company.”

The subject of Mr Bligh made Tertia’s reddish gaze wander idly, once again. “I am sure that it would please him,” she said distractedly. “Oh! But we are at the church, and all of this must wait. It is time for Sunday service, after all!”

As St Mary’s chill stone walls enfolded them, Clarimonde was mildly surprised to discover that many of Whitby’s other residents had already crowded into the pews. Somehow, she had convinced herself that Tertia’s guests and servants were an isolated enclave within the mist—but the church was filled to the brim with people in their best Sunday clothing.

The communal murmurs that Clarimonde would normally expect at this hour were certainly softer, though, and strangely muted—as though the world around them had been lined with wool. As Tertia swept down the aisle, conversation died away entirely, replaced by worshipful stares.

Tertia lowered her eyes with unconvincing modesty, smiling coyly at the floor. “Here,” she told Clarimonde, gesturing towards the stairs to an empty gallery. “This is where I sit. You may stay with me today—oh, and you, Miss Molinari.” The Leanansidhe climbed the stairs and settled herself demurely in her seat, as the rest of the church looked on. “This is why I try to arrive on time. They never start without me, you know.”

Clarimonde had not seen the priest among the gathered throngs—but he emerged now quickly, striding his way towards the gallery. He was a man of exceedingly advanced years, with a curve in his spine and hair nearly as white as his gown. Despite this, he was spry enough to climb the stairs to Tertia, and he was soon clasping her hands fondly within his.

“Lady Hollowvale!” he greeted her. “How the sight of you gladdens every Sunday. I do hope that you enjoy today’s homily.”

Are homilies meant to be enjoyed? Clarimonde wondered. But though she was not terribly good with people, she was at least sensible enough to keep the words inside her head, instead of speaking them aloud.

“I always enjoy your homilies, Reverend,” Tertia assured the priest warmly. She patted his hands in return, and Clarimonde swore that she could hear the old man sigh with pleasure.

“How dear he is,” Tertia murmured to Clarimonde and Miss Molinari, as the reverend retreated in order to mount the pulpit. “Is he not dear?”

“Oh yes,” said Miss Molinari. “Entirely so.” But her longing gaze was fixed again upon Tertia as she said the words.

The call to service soon silenced any conversation in their gallery. Tertia watched on raptly as the reverend spoke, as though consumed by his high, thready voice. When the general confession came, Clarimonde found herself wondering whether the Leanansidhe would participate—but to her surprise, Tertia spoke the words easily, with absolutely no shame or self-consciousness. The part about hoping to live a “godly, righteous, and sober life” seemed particularly surreal, given the state in which Clarimonde had first met the other woman.

It was quite some time before they reached the reverend’s homily at all—and while this was surely unsurprising to anyone who had ever attended a Sunday service, Tertia’s saintly patience began to wane, nevertheless, somewhere around the Lord’s Prayer. Several times, she fell to murmuring at Clarimonde on the subject of the various artists she had sponsored, and how grateful they were for her patronage. If the reverend took any insult at this distraction occurring during the service, in their very visible gallery, then at least he did not show it—but Clarimonde herself was so discomfited that she could not help shrinking down in her seat and attempting to disappear.

Finally, however, the moment that Tertia had so anxiously awaited now arrived. Reverend Shaw glanced up at her from the pulpit with a beneficent smile, and gently cleared his throat.

“Of late,” he told the gathering, “I have had the story of Saint Hilda close to mind.”