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Clarimonde shot her employer one last helpless look. Finally, she reached out to squeeze his hand. “Thank you,” she said softly. “For everything. I am terribly sad that I might not see you again, Mr Beagle.”

Mr Beagle did not smile—but Clarimonde thought, perhaps, that he had squeezed her hand a little in return. “You are not a terribly effective salesgirl, Miss Betony,” he informed her. “But you are an excellent chemist. Wherever you are going, I do hope that you continue your work.”

Mr Beagle released her hand. And then, with a severe, long-suffering expression, he shooed her towards the hearse, where Lord Foxglove offered out his hand to help her up the steps.

Clarimonde took the faerie’s hand and clambered up the stairs. Lord Foxglove’s grip was unnervingly light, such that she could not help the feeling that his support might evaporate at any moment. Nevertheless, she slid herself into the hearse, which had been outfitted with long, black velvet seats—at which point she discovered that someone else was already seated across from her.

The woman in question was dressed as though she’d come directly from a funeral. Her dull black hair had been tightly pinned atop her head, though wisps of it escaped in places to frame her face. Dramatic widow’s weeds spilled across the seats on her side of the carriage, drowning her entire form in black crepe. Despite this grim spectacle, her expression was bountifully cheerful.

Clarimonde blinked at her in surprise. “Bellamira?” she said. “What are you doing here?”

“A good morning to you too, Clarimonde!” Bellamira enthused. “Oh, isn’t this exciting? I do believe that we are going on an adventure.” Clarimonde’s youngest adoptive sister waved a black silk handkerchief in one hand as she spoke, gesturing with it emphatically. “And as to what has happened⁠—”

One of Bellamira’s dramatic flourishes nearly caught Lord Foxglove across the face as he joined them in the carriage. The faerie jerked back from her flailing hand with an alarmed twitch of his narrow nose. “Madam,” he sighed. “Please. I have already been attacked once today.”

Bellamira offered him a winning smile. “Ah, our hero!” she greeted him. “Do join us, Mr Fox! I was about to explain the situation.”

Lord Foxglove’s nose twitched again—perhaps even more violently—at the suggestion of this ill-distinguished nickname. But he smoothed his features into a generally friendly expression as he settled into the seat beside Clarimonde and pulled the carriage door closed. A moment later, the vehicle shuddered oddly and began to move.

“As I was saying before,” Bellamira continued blithely, “dear old Winnie has sent another letter. It came first to Mrs Lowe, who brought it then to Hugh, who passed it on to me. It is so very full of dangerous things that I wouldn’t know where to begin! I was just about to die for a little bit so that I might ask Winifred a few more questions, in fact… but Mr Fox arrived first in his very fine carriage and said that he was here to spirit us both away to Witchwood Manor.”

Clarimonde glanced sharply at Lord Foxglove, who had leaned back heavily into the seat to rub at his ribs. Sympathy flickered through her as she remembered the way that Mr Brand had caught the snowy fox with his foot. She leaned down to open up her leather valise and started searching through its contents. “Winnie sent you to retrieve us, then,” Clairmonde observed quietly. “You should have simply told me that. It might also have helped if you hadn’t started by trying to steal my name.”

“Oh, one must always try,” Lord Foxglove told her airily. “Besides which: I thought it might be faster to command you to leave with me, rather than trying to convince you. It would have made things simpler if it had worked, don’t you think?”

“Thank goodness the answer is now immaterial,” Clarimonde muttered to herself. She pulled another vial from the valise—a small, squat bottle with a brass-coloured cap—and offered it out to the faerie. “This is mainly blue violet, with a few other additives,” she told him. “It should help with the pain. You’ll only need a little bit; you may keep the rest, if it suits you. I did promise you a magical perfume.”

Lord Foxglove accepted the vial with a slight inclination of his head. He loosened the cap in order to give the perfume a tentative sniff. A surprised and deeply mollified expression followed. “Lovely,” said the faerie. “I thought it might be stronger, like the formula you used before. But this is wonderfully delicate.”

His tone had warmed with obvious approval—in fact, it was the same tone he had used to mollify the hearse. Though Clarimonde knew better, she could not help being reluctantly affected by the praise. Her skill with perfumes was a point of pride; though she had worked endlessly to perfect it, she so rarely had a chance to put it on display.

“All scents should be tailored for their use,” said Clarimonde. “Asafoetida is an assault on the senses, which is why I used it on Mr Brand. But easing someone’s pain ought to be gentle and comforting.” She studied Foxglove’s narrow features more intently. “Besides which… I have an inkling that strong smells would overwhelm you. You are a puca, are you not? You could be any sort of shapeshifter, I suppose—but you are very fond of animal forms.”

Lord Foxglove had just dabbed a hint of the perfume onto the inside of his wrist. At this, however, he offered Clarimonde another smile of surprise. “I am a puca,” he confirmed. “How very clever you are, Miss Betony. But that is common in your family, of course.”

It was odd, Clarimonde thought, how easily Lord Foxglove charmed her, even as she noted tiny signs of insincerity in his manner. There was a method to his flattery; he had already recognised that she preferred to be complimented on her mind, and that her sisters were important to her. This, she thought, must be his own particular well-honed skill. The overall effect was irresistibly pleasant—rather like a properly mixed perfume.

She did her best to let the words pass through her, refocussing herself on the situation at hand.

“Winnie awaits us at Witchwood Manor, then,” Clarimonde observed. “But will we truly be safe there?”

Lord Foxglove tilted his head at her, and Clarimonde realised that she had changed the subject rather bluntly. Nevertheless, the faerie followed her lead. “I doubt that anywhere is truly safe from the Lord Sorcier and his hound,” he said. “But Miss Winifred has made powerful alliances which might extend to you—and that is something, I suppose.”

Though Lord Foxglove’s manner was still easy and approachable, something subtle in his phrasing made Clarimonde frown. “You don’t approve of those alliances?” she asked him slowly.

Lord Foxglove blinked once. “Oh, my opinion seems irrelevant,” he said. “Miss Winifred has always done as she sees fit. Do you know, I knew her when she was a child? I often visited Hollowvale, where her sleeping spirit dreamed. Really, she has barely changed at all—though she is taller now, I must admit.”

Clarimonde deepened her frown at the attempted deflection. “Mr Fox,” she addressed him, with a deliberate edge of frostiness, “I am becoming increasingly cross with your insistence on dancing around the truth⁠—”

The hearse swerved abruptly, knocking all of them askew. Clarimonde struggled to sit up again, spitting out a bit of black crepe from Bellamira’s voluminous skirts.

“Oh dear,” said Bellamira. “We are being hunted.”

Lord Foxglove knitted his brow at her as he pushed himself back up in his seat. “We needn’t leap to conclusions,” he said. “The hearse is somewhat jumpy today.”

Bellamira shook her head, pressing her lips together. Her hands twisted in her skirts. “I heard a dog howling on the breeze,” she said. “It was signalling its master. The sound is plain as day to me—but I suppose it is not pitched for living ears.”

Clarimonde drew in a soft breath. Bellamira had always been a sickly child in the workhouses; even now, her heart was weak and prone to wavering, such that their brother Hugh had kept her under careful medication. Bellamira’s resulting nearness to death had granted her an unusual sense for the spirit world that very few people shared.