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Clarimonde shoved her elbow into Mr Brand’s midsection. Normally, this would have sufficed to dissuade a man of his stature—she had been told that her elbow was unusually sharp and bony. But Mr Brand merely let out a soft grunt, maintaining his grip on her hair.

Clarimonde fumbled desperately within her valise, searching for one of her perfumes. Her fingers closed upon a vial, even as an impossibly large, snowy white serpent wound its way around Mr Brand’s neck.

Mr Brand released her, reaching up to claw at the snake. It quickly became apparent that no strength of his could pry it loose; instead, he stumbled against the counter, gasping uselessly for breath. His pale face remained unnervingly calm for a man in danger of death.

Part of Clarimonde wanted to protest, to demand that Foxglove relent before he murdered the man—for surely, both the fox and the serpent were merely faerie forms. But again, her instincts told her that Mr Brand was far too dangerous to treat with kid gloves. If even a lord of Faerie was afraid of him, then maybe it was best he died before he could properly fight back.

Instead, Clarimonde pulled the vial from her valise and upended it onto Mr Brand’s head.

Thankfully, it was the vial she had thought it was. The awful, garlicky scent of asafoetida instantly overwhelmed the store. Though Mr Beagle kept a bottle of the oil on hand, it was his least favourite ingredient by far—Clarimonde had therefore heard no protests when she’d used a sizeable amount of it to craft a banishing perfume.

This bit of magic finally broke through Mr Brand’s strange indifference. His pale skin erupted into crimson streaks where the perfume dripped down his face. He forgot the serpent twined about his neck, opting instead to claw at his eyes. Soon, he had tumbled to the floor; a moment later, Clarimonde heard his screams begin, as the white serpent slithered quickly away.

An instant later, Lord Foxglove was beside her, taking her other arm in his. His long brown ponytail had bleached to perfect white; his narrow features were even more vulpine and inhuman, and his very fine waistcoat now glowed like silver moonlight. Between the faerie and Mr Beagle, Clarimonde found herself neatly propelled along towards the back room.

“Goodness,” Lord Foxglove said cheerfully. “I should like one of those perfumes, I think. Have you another one on hand?”

Clarimonde picked up her pace between the two men, trying to ignore the agonised screams still echoing in her ears. “I will find you something equally impressive,” she told Lord Foxglove breathlessly. “I dare say you have earned it.”

CHAPTER 2

“You are a sensible girl, Miss Betony, which is why I offer you this sensible instruction: Always flee your troubles, if the option is available. If you must face a problem head-on, then it is far better to do so later, at a time of your choosing, with an excellent plan and a level head.”

LORD ELIAS WILDER TO MISS CLARIMONDE BETONY, AGE 14

There was indeed a carriage waiting in the mews behind the perfume shop. The sight of it made Clarimonde instinctively drag her feet.

Swathed entirely in black, the carriage was far too long and thin—though it looked as though it could still seat several people comfortably. Dark curtains fell across its oblong windows, obscuring everything inside. A strange and terrible foreboding emanated from the vehicle, touching Clarimonde’s heart with dread.

“Is that a hearse?” she demanded.

“Oh, technically yes,” Lord Foxglove said casually, continuing to tug her forward with him. “I won it in a wager with a sluagh, several years ago. She hasn’t yet forgiven me.”

Mr Beagle released Clarimonde’s arm, stepping back from her in order to adjust his spectacles. “It hasn’t any horses,” he observed.

Clarimonde glanced at the front of the hearse. Indeed, there were no horses currently attached to it—nor even a visible method of attaching one.

“Of course there are no horses,” Lord Foxglove retorted. “Why would there be horses? This is a faerie carriage; it makes its own decisions. Horses would merely get in the way.” He finally let Clarimonde go in order to pull out a set of stairs at the back of the hearse. As he reached for them, the carriage shifted; the stairs snapped closed again, and Foxglove snatched his hand back, watching the hearse with sudden wariness. The strange feeling of existential dread surrounding it increased.

“I don’t think your hearse wants us as passengers,” Clarimonde said faintly.

Lord Foxglove straightened himself with annoyance. “Of course it doesn’t,” he said. “Would you enjoy dragging several heavy people about?” The faerie reached out carefully to place his palm against the side of the hearse. “Darling,” he said, in a soothing tone, “I know you’ve had a hard day. London is so wretchedly loud and dirty, isn’t it?”

The carriage shifted and settled beneath his hand, as though silently grumbling. Black curtains twitched, however, which suggested that it was listening.

“I would love for you to take us all away from here, as fast as you can manage,” Lord Foxglove coaxed the hearse. “I know that you would like that too. Why—we can take off the very moment that we are all inside, and leave this city far behind us.”

Gradually, the sense of dread began to ease. The carriage steps descended slowly, and Foxglove patted the hearse approvingly. “I knew you would come through for me,” he said.

Clarimonde took a step towards the hearse—but when she noticed that Mr Beagle had not moved, she turned to face him urgently.

“You must come with us, Mr Beagle,” she told him. “What if you are arrested for helping me escape?”

Mr Beagle shook his head mildly. “I will handle my own affairs, Miss Betony,” he replied. “I can hail a carriage of my own. It is an excellent time, I think, to go on holiday.”

Lord Foxglove cleared his throat pointedly, still lingering next to the carriage steps. “Not that I would ever dictate a lady’s business,” he said, “but that wretched hound will recover himself eventually. It would be best if we have left before he does.”

It was clear from the way that Foxglove spoke the word ‘hound’ that he had chosen it for a reason. But Clarimonde did not immediately ask him to elaborate upon it. She was far too consumed with Mr Beagle, who had set his features into a familiar, slightly pinched expression which meant that he was already irritated with the length of their conversation.