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“I will tell you then what Lugh told me,” the fisherman’s wife said. “From his breastbone, you must craft a harp, and string it with his hair. Played properly, this harp will haunt all those who hear it with joy, or sorrow, or else lull them into deep, dark slumber. But no faerie now among your court can play this harp—for none of you have the means. Instead, you must search out all of the most accomplished mortal bards and teach them your magic. One of these magicians will then play the harp well enough to enchant all of the fomóraiġ on your behalf.”

This revelation vexed the Daghda even more. The idea of teaching faerie magic to lowly mortals was unthinkable! But though he raged against the suggestion, Lugh’s prophecy was clear, and he did not dare to throw away this chance at victory.

Thus the Daghda took Lugh’s body with him, and a harp was crafted from his bones and hair. The faeries drew together every mortal bard that they could find and taught them secret magics. And lo, just as Lugh had promised, a mortal magician named Úaithne drew sweet music from the harp, such that even the Daghda wept to hear it.

The faeries sent Úaithne to King Balor’s court with the harp. The magician offered to compose for the king a song of unique, surpassing beauty, which he would play at a feast before all of Balor’s children and servants. King Balor’s cruelty was matched only by his pride—and so, he agreed to gather together all of his tribe to listen to the magician’s song.

The terrible king knew his mistake as soon as the first note played upon the harp—but by then, it was far too late, and there was nothing he could do. Instead, he and his court listened intently, frozen with joy and sorrow as the bones of Balor’s firstborn son sang them into endless slumber, for love of his mortal parents and all of their kin.

CHAPTER 12

“Even the most powerful people have someone else they fear; no amount of power will ever be enough to protect you from the entire world. But sometimes, admittedly, it is pleasing to be the thing that some insufferable person happens to fear.”

LORD ELIAS WILDER TO MISS CLARIMONDE BETONY, AGE 14

Clarimonde awoke again to midnight in Hollowvale—though her internal clock told her that it must have been at least nine o’ clock in the morning in Whitby.

Part of her was expecting to discover the small white fox curled up next to her again… but this time, the fox was decidedly absent. Instead, Clarimonde found herself tucked against a warm male chest.

It was impossible to mistake the man who was currently holding her, of course. Though Foxglove had discarded his moonlit waistcoat, his long white hair still tickled at her cheek—and while the scent of the blue violet perfume she had given him so many days ago had surely waned by now, a faint trace of it lingered upon him from the evening before, tickling at the edge of her senses.

Clarimonde should have been aghast; since being forced to share sleeping space with several other children in the workhouses, having a bed to herself had been one of her favourite and most necessary luxuries. But try as she might, she could not summon up the requisite irritation. Instead, her limbs were pleasantly warm and leaden, and her body was suffused with such a depth of heavenly contentment that she could not bring herself to move.

Moving might have been difficult, regardless. The faerie’s embrace was particularly unyielding. His long fingers were threaded through her hair, as though he’d staked a permanent claim upon it.

Clarimonde closed her eyes again, trying to examine the warm feelings in her chest. As she did, a faint worry began to gnaw at her contentment.

Lord Foxglove, she thought, was concerningly adept at making her feel… wanted. Presently, in fact, she might have chosen the word ‘cherished’. And oh, Clarimonde suspected that he was more on her side now than he was otherwise—but certainly, he did not hold any special regard for her, as he so often seemed to imply.

He was, at heart, a selfish coward with a few redeeming qualities. And though he would not eat her soul, like Tertia, he would still take shameless advantage of her in his own way, in return for that false sense of affection.

Clarimonde gathered up her strength. Gradually, she smothered the pleasant glow in her heart, replacing it with cold and clear-eyed sensibility. During one of his rare fits of honesty, Lord Foxglove had called her ‘plain’. He valued her perfumes, most certainly—but only in his careful, calculated way. At best, he saw her as a conditional ally whose loyalty he might cement through further attachment.

She had so far managed to avoid being seduced by the Leanansidhe; she would not now be seduced by a lord of Faerie with a talent for appearing sympathetic. She could be friendly with him, and even helpful. But she would not mistake their relationship for anything deeper than it was.

Besides which, she remembered abruptly, the faerie had once again put off their harp lesson in return for a story about a harp. The realisation struck her with a bolt of irritation.

“I am expected for breakfast,” Clarimonde mumbled into the faerie’s chest. “You will need to release me for that.”

Foxglove made a tiny grumbling noise against her. Despite his current state, Clarimonde found that he still reminded her of the little white fox. “If you go down to breakfast,” he muttered, “then I must go to breakfast. And that intolerable creature will surely be there.”

So saying, he pulled the cloth of gold blanket over their heads.

Clarimonde stifled a small snort in the darkness. When weary, she was learning, Foxglove was somewhat more prone to honesty than usual.

“We are here to woo her,” Clarimonde pointed out to him dryly. The blanket muffled her voice, somewhat spoiling the seriousness of her tone. “Normally, you are the first to point that out.”

Foxglove sighed heavily; as he did, the heat of his breath tickled across the top of her head. “I do not particularly enjoy wooing her,” he admitted. “She is so very tiring. But… you are correct, of course.”

There was a long pause then, beneath the blanket.

“…Mr Fox,” Clarimonde reminded him. “You must let me go now.”

Foxglove cleared his throat. Gradually, his fingers loosened from her hair. Finally, his arms withdrew—reluctantly, it seemed.

Clarimonde wriggled her way free of the blanket and pushed herself out of the bed. A flush had settled into her skin, such that the cold, damp air was now especially uncomfortable.

She plucked a comb from the dressing table before Lord Foxglove could think to attack her hair, in his usual way. The last thing she needed right now, she thought, was the feeling of him fussing over her so delicately.