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She also had six fingers on her right hand.

The very last thing Clarimonde wanted to do was say anything nice about the painting. But Tertia was looking at her with unparalleled interest, and she knew that Foxglove would hiss at her again if she did not.

“It is very beautiful,” Clarimonde said wearily. It was a horrible, unconvincing lie. But because it was something that Tertia desperately wanted to be true, she realised, it was easier to carry off.

“Better than the original, I think,” Tertia agreed, with obvious pleasure in her voice. She hesitated though, and Clarimonde knew that whatever she was about to say was somehow important. “I know that I can do better, though. I would like to stretch my talents. I am hoping to compose… a very special song. Something truly transcendent.”

Clarimonde studied the Leanansidhe very closely. Again, she had the sense that she had stumbled upon one of the signals that Lord Foxglove used in order to manipulate people—and though that signal was admittedly opaque to her, she knew that he was present and listening intently.

“Are you searching for more composers, then?” Clarimonde asked slowly.

Tertia huffed. “I am not,” she said. She met Clarimonde’s gaze with sudden intensity. “I am weary of inspiring others all of the time, Clarimonde. It is exhausting. No—I would like instead to be inspired. I want someone else to strike me with such fervour that I cannot help but create my art. I want that effortless feeling for myself. Do you understand what I am saying?”

Clarimonde understood… enough. She had, at least, been a shop girl—and she knew how to recognise a client when she saw one. “You want me to bottle inspiration for you,” she said, “so that you can compose something incomparable.”

At this, Tertia blessed her with a brilliant, beatific smile. “I knew that you had promise,” she said. She took Clarimonde’s hand in hers and lifted it up to the bare skin of her chest, just over her heartbeat. Fresh heat thrilled through Clarimonde’s body at the intimacy, as she became painfully aware of her own short breath.

Tertia leaned down to brush her crimson lips across Clarimonde’s fingers. The kiss was a hot brand against her skin—and Clarimonde’s perfume burned hotter, too, as sickening bliss assaulted her senses.

“This is the most important task that you will do for me, Clarimonde Betony,” Tertia whispered against her fingers. “I am allowed to ask other tasks of you, it is true… but grant me this one, in particular, and I will show you endless gratitude.”

There was a low, husky tone to Tertia’s voice that promised a particularly illicit form of gratitude. And for a moment, Clarimonde could not help but entertain the images that came with that. She imagined the searing heat of Tertia’s lips on hers; the sound of her own name on the other woman’s lips, spoken with pleasure and affection.

What would it be like to have the intimate and undivided focus of Lady Hollowvale, in her own boudoir? Somehow, Clarimonde knew that it would make her feel alive, and briefly whole, and wanted beyond measure. If the most beautiful woman in the world could want her in that way, she thought, then surely it would mean that she was worthy in a way that no one else could ever fully erase.

Clarimonde’s perfume was burning painfully now. But it felt oddly distant and unimportant, beside the feeling of Tertia’s lips on her skin.

A glimmer caught at the edge of Clarimonde’s vision. Something thudded to the floor at her feet, briefly drawing her attention.

The brass pocket watch had fallen free of her pocket.

Clarimonde stared at it, as Bellamira’s voice came back to her.

Is this how you wish to spend your time?

She had come here for a reason, she remembered. Her beloved sister was gone—and Tertia was allied with the creature that had taken her. There was a man asleep upon a bier, somewhere beneath her feet. There was a harp that might still save the family she had left.

Clarimonde pried her hand gently from Tertia’s grip in order to pick up the pocket watch. The feel of the cool metal against her hand did more to steady her than the scent of her own perfume.

She forced a smile at the Leanansidhe. “I am capable of granting your heart’s desire,” she said. “Give me time, and I will craft a masterpiece perfume for you. When I am done, you will compose an unforgettable song—beyond anything these human artists could imagine.”

Tertia stared at Clarimonde, with her hand still held over her own heart. A rapt expression had overtaken her—and Clarimonde knew that she had spoken the proper words.

“She nearly had you,” said the dormouse, from Clarimonde’s pocket.

Clarimonde slowed on her way through the hallway. Now that she had escaped the Leanansidhe’s presence, her limbs had begun to tremble with relief.

“You were the one who dropped the watch from my pocket,” she mumbled back. “That was… very well done. Thank you.”

The little white dormouse peeked its head out of her pocket. “I cannot imagine what it is you see in her,” it sniffed. “She has just admitted that she would eat part of your soul, given half a chance. She would probably make some tawdry imitation perfume from it, as well.”

Clarimonde drew in a shaking breath and leaned herself against the wall. “Perhaps her power doesn’t affect you in quite the same manner,” she murmured hoarsely. “When she is absent, Mr Fox, I see her clearly. But when she touches me… it is opium. I forget everything. I become someone worthwhile—or at least, someone worth more than nothing.”

The dormouse skittered up her shoulder. “You are the most stubborn, moralistic woman I have ever met,” it scoffed. “How can you be so certain of everything else, and yet so insecure about your own value?”

“Everyone wants to be wanted,” Clarimonde told him sharply. “Even you. I do not grudge you pining for Hollowvale’s attention, Mr Fox. Do not tell me that I am foolish for wanting the same.”

At this, the dormouse fell abruptly silent. Clarimonde straightened from the wall and forced herself back towards her own bedroom.