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Clarimonde returned her attention to the man in the bed. He was still pale and suffering, as before… but now, the source of his awful pallor was obvious. The fingers of his right hand had been torn away and left to bleed. The injury had gone untreated for so long now that a gruesome black infection had set into the veins of his arm, crawling its way up to his shoulder.

The scent of putrid rot threaded its way through the sweet honey of datura. Clarimonde staggered back, swiftly averting her eyes from the horrible sight.

“What do you see?” the dormouse asked urgently.

Clarimonde pressed her lips together, trying to hold down a surge of nausea. “Tertia has done this,” she whispered tightly. “She said that she takes pieces of her artists. She has taken too many pieces from Mr Bligh. Mother Barclay is correct; I think that he is dying.”

Clarimonde let the handkerchief fall away. As she did, the scent of bergamot and citrus reasserted itself, chasing away the remnants of rot and datura. Later, she knew, she would have a sickening headache from her brush with the oil, on top of everything else.

The dormouse skittered down from her shoulder. A moment later, Foxglove stood beside her, staring down at Mr Bligh with his inscrutable, icy blue eyes.

Clarimonde did not understand at first what the faerie was doing, as he reached for the pocket of his coat. But presently, Foxglove produced the small vial of blue violet perfume that she had given him in the carriage. As she watched, he pried away the stopper.

An odd, aching sympathy unfurled within her heart, as she recognised his intentions.

“My magic cannot save him,” Clarimonde said softly. “Those injuries are too dire, Mr Fox. The infection has gone on too long.”

Foxglove dabbed his fingers with the perfume and applied it gently to Mr Bligh’s neck. “That may be so,” he murmured. “But perhaps it will bring him some comfort before he passes.”

The blue violet had an effect, at least. Mr Bligh’s breath rattled in his throat, as he came back to consciousness. Though he did not open his eyes, he spoke in Clarimonde’s general direction. “Have you seen it?” he rasped. “My painting?”

Clarimonde swallowed, unable to reply. She had not seen the final painting, after all; she had only seen it after Tertia’s tasteless mutilations.

Mr Bligh continued on as though she had said yes. “How did you like it?” he asked. The question seemed instinctively drawn out of him. The desperation in his voice reminded Clarimonde abruptly of the hungry, pitiable way that Tertia had spoken of the gold in her bedroom.

Foxglove leaned down to murmur in Clarimonde’s ear. “Tell him it was the most beautiful painting that you have ever seen,” he instructed her. The odd softness that she sometimes heard in his voice was there again, lurking just beneath the surface.

Clarimonde cleared her throat.

“It was the most beautiful painting that I have ever seen,” she repeated carefully. “You should be very proud, Mr Bligh.”

The words relaxed something intangible inside of him. Mr Bligh sank back into his pillow with one last, deeply laboured breath.

After that, he did not breathe again.

Lord Foxglove was noticeably silent after they had returned to Clarimonde’s bedroom. It was clear that Mr Bligh’s last words had left their mark upon him in some way.

Clarimonde settled herself onto the edge of a golden chair, watching him worriedly as he began to pace. She could tell, of course, that he was out of sorts—but she did not know the exact nature of his discomfort, and she had little idea of how to address it.

“How swiftly Tertia abandons them, once they have served their use,” Foxglove said finally. “After all of their earnest efforts to serve her, she cannot summon up the slightest bit of gratitude.”

Clarimonde’s lips parted with understanding. “Oh,” she mumbled.

Foxglove turned to look at her. “Oh?” he asked.

Clarimonde winced. “It’s only that poor Mr Bligh must remind you of… previous events.” She did not think it wise to bring up Hollowvale directly, given his current mood.

Lord Foxglove did not confirm her suspicions—but neither did he correct her. He looked away sharply. “I do not like to see people abandoned,” he admitted.

Clarimonde raised her eyebrows at him. “You nearly threw me out of a moving carriage in order to save yourself from Mr Brand,” she pointed out.

To his credit, the faerie managed to look mildly contrite—though Clarimonde knew that he was perfectly capable of feigning the expression. “I was there under duress,” he told her. “And you were a stranger. For all I knew, you might have done the same to me.”

Clarimonde suppressed an instinctive bolt of irritation at the suggestion. I would not have done the same to you, she thought. But an entirely different part of her noticed the other implication inherent in his words. “I was a stranger,” she observed. “But I am not a stranger now. Would you still throw me to the hounds in order to save yourself, Lord Foxglove?”

The faerie stared at her, as though the question had not yet occurred to him.

Silence stretched between them, long and uncomfortable, until Clarimonde finally nodded. “I see,” she said. She should not have felt such a pang of disappointment at the confirmation—but she did.