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Clarimonde’s anger flared.

“We are!” Foxglove interjected swiftly. “We are most certainly here under Lady Hollowvale’s hospitality!”

One hand closed firmly around Clarimonde’s arm, dragging her back from Mr Brand. The dormouse had disappeared; Lord Foxglove stood behind her now, with his bright blue eyes locked cautiously upon Mr Brand’s shadow.

As Clarimonde followed his gaze, she became aware that Mr Brand’s shadow was moving. Two sleepy, burning red eyes opened within that unnatural darkness, fixing upon her with languid menace.

Gradually, a large, shaggy form resolved out of the unnatural darkness. The hound—more akin to a wolf than to a dog—stood only half a head shorter than Mr Brand himself.

“Lady Hollowvale would no doubt be terribly upset with anyone who disturbed the peace beneath her roof,” Lord Foxglove continued pointedly. He pitched his voice to Mr Brand—but as his grip tightened on Clarimonde’s arm, she began to suspect that he had truly addressed the observation to her.

Clarimonde drew in a deep, steadying breath. The irrational red haze of her anger struggled against her efforts. But she was aware, on some level, that the black dog at Mr Brand’s feet would easily overpower her before she could visit any harm upon him.

“My goodness. I am overwhelmed with visitors, it seems.” Tertia’s voice floated over the air, twining itself between them.

Mr Brand sharpened his attention on a point just over Clarimonde’s shoulder. A tinge of wariness crept into his black eyes, and he fell to one knee, averting his gaze to the cold stone floor.

Lady Hollowvale had arrived to breakfast entirely barefoot, in a scandalous peacock dressing gown that revealed far more than it concealed. Her long, shining black hair was loose and tangled about her shoulders—and though her voice was clear and sweet, there was now a breathless terror in her presence which spoke of wild moors and fresh-spilled blood.

Tertia smiled at Mr Brand—but the expression was entirely devoid of any corresponding welcome or affection. Even the broad black shadow he had brought with him into the abbey seemed to shrink beneath the weight of her scrutiny.

“I see that my father’s old hound has come to breakfast,” Tertia said. Her bare feet made no sound against the stone as she walked across the nave. “What must I call you now, Hound? It is an age of new titles, after all.”

Mr Brand kept his eyes firmly fixed upon the floor. “The mortals of this age call me Mr Gabriel Brand, Lady Hollowvale,” he replied. His tone was carefully respectful. “Though of late, I serve your esteemed brother and not his father.”

Tertia paused several feet away from the end of the banquet table, looking down at Mr Brand. Her smile curled into something even less welcoming. “In this realm,” she informed him coldly, “I am the ultimate authority. Any business that my brother might have must therefore meet with my approval.”

There was, perhaps, an overly vicious note behind the words. The air in the nave had chilled abruptly; somehow, Hollowvale’s disapproval was tangible as it leaned in upon the gathering, looming behind Tertia like a threatening blizzard. Clarimonde shivered violently at the sudden change in temperature, rubbing at her arms, as spirals of frost began to crawl across the banquet table. Suddenly, every breath within the room curled with fog upon the air.

Clarimonde forced herself to ignore the chill in order to study the Leanansidhe more closely, trying to unravel the cause of her sudden fury.

“She is insecure,” Foxglove whispered at Clarimonde’s ear, as though responding to her silent question. He too was shivering violently, as he kept his grip upon her arm. “It w-was her brother who conquered Hollowvale’s former lady. He gifted Tertia this realm, and it accepted her. Perhaps she f-fears that Secundus will take back Hollowvale again if she displeases him.”

“I understand,” Mr Brand told Tertia solemnly. His position forced him to speak to the floor, rather than to the lady herself. Perhaps he was shivering as well—but if so, it was difficult to tell. “I do not question your authority, Lady Hollowvale. I came here in pursuit of a rogue magician who has crossed into your realm. I am told that she enjoys your hospitality. I would not dare to violate your will on the matter; your brother values his relationship with you, and I will not be the cause of strife between you.”

Tertia’s jaw tightened; Foxglove’s fingers twitched ever-so-slightly on Clarimonde’s arm. “Oh,” the faerie mumbled haltingly. “Mr Brand has misstepped. He is not a v-very political man, is he?”

“You do not dare to violate my will,” Tertia emphasised slowly, “because of what I will do to you myself, Mr Brand. I will turn your immortality upon itself. I will carve pieces from your body and allow them to return, that I might carve them from you once again. I will trap you within Hollowvale’s ice and paint your silent screams for my own enjoyment. You and your filthy dog will remember your place while you are here—or else I will remind you of it.”

The frost had now climbed its way up the walls of the nave, shimmering with silent menace.

I was right, Clarimonde thought. Even immortal creatures have things which they must fear.

Mr Brand bowed his head further, until it had nearly touched the stone beneath their feet. “Of course, Lady Hollowvale,” he agreed. His voice held no audible emotion on the matter.

Tertia turned her attention to Clarimonde. Barely-leashed violence roiled in her reddish eyes. “And have you come to Whitby in order to hide behind my skirts, Miss Betony?” she asked. Her voice was soft, and deceptively sweet—but Clarimonde knew that it concealed a terrible anger.

Lord Foxglove did not dare to murmur any further advice into Clarimonde’s ear, with Tertia’s focus keen upon them both.

Clarimonde kept her spine perfectly straight as she looked back at the Leanansidhe—though inwardly, she found herself frantically searching back through anything and everything that Lord Foxglove had ever told her about pleasing Tertia. She consciously forced her shivers under control, doing her best to project a confidence she did not fully feel.

“I have no need to hide behind you,” she said finally. “I have defeated Mr Brand once already. If I were not bound by hospitality, I would already have laid him low again.” Her fingertips had gone faintly blue at the edges now, she thought. She did her best to pay them no mind. “If his presence disturbs you, however, then I would be only too pleased to remove him from your sight. Give me the task, and I will see it done.”

A ripple of surprise disrupted Tertia’s ire. She searched Clarimonde more closely, as though considering her in an entirely different light. “Mr Brand,” Tertia said slowly, “does this magician speak truly? Has she bested you before?”

Mr Brand did not look up. “To my shame,” he replied, “Miss Betony does speak the truth. It is not my way to abandon the hunt, however—nor will my failure be easily forgiven. I must follow her, regardless.”

Tertia’s shoulders relaxed at this admission. The tension that had suffused her now seemed tempered by a violent satisfaction.