Page 41

“If you had tried to throw Bellamira from the carriage,” she said finally, “I might have become this angry with you. But I was the one that you threatened, and that is… forgivable.”

The shadowy hound beneath the table cracked its wicked teeth upon a bone, with a satisfying crunch that startled both of them out of the conversation.

Breakfast had nearly finished—as much as any meal ever truly finished, in this place—and Tertia swept again towards Clarimonde’s side of the table, with her peacock dressing gown hanging idly off one shoulder.

The Leanansidhe trailed her palm beneath Clarimonde’s chin, gently lifting her face. It was impossible to tell whether her fingers were very hot or very cold against her skin; either way, they burned.

“Darling Clarimonde,” Tertia sighed. “I find myself in dire need of your company. Won’t you spend an hour with me in my boudoir?”

The remaining scraps of Clarimonde’s ire nearly dissipated at the prospect. She drew in a slow, steadying breath, as Tertia’s reddish eyes gleamed down at her with expectation. “Of course,” she said. “I would never decline your company, Lady Hollowvale.”

Tertia’s gaze sharpened upon the dormouse that had hidden itself, once again, just behind Clarimonde’s hair. “Do leave your animal behind,” she said, with an icy note in her voice.

Clarimonde suppressed a wince. After all of Foxglove’s efforts to remain unobtrusive, her unthinking fury had forced him to take human form in front of Tertia. It was painfully clear that Lady Hollowvale did not appreciate the idea of someone beautiful hiding beneath her roof.

“Please stay here and keep an eye on Miss Molinari,” Clarimonde told Foxglove, with a bit more charity in her tone. “I expect that Mr Brand’s company might distress her.”

The mouse scampered quickly from her shoulder, without any further reply. Perhaps, Clarimonde thought, Foxglove was wise to be such a coward today.

She rose from the banquet table and followed after Tertia, as Mr Brand’s dark eyes bored holes into her back.

Tertia took her arm, and together, they climbed the stairs to midnight.

“You really are dreadfully clever, Clarimonde,” the Leanansidhe observed, as darkness closed around them. “Unkindly so. You must know how little it pleases me to give away one of your tasks.”

Her voice was soft but sharp, as it trickled between the tick tick tick-ing of the frozen grandfather clock.

Clarimonde forced herself to gather her bearings. A surge of panic struggled to control her, as she thought of Foxglove and his helpful advice, stranded at the banquet table downstairs.

“I know which task it is you truly care about,” Clarimonde said finally. “The others are merely a distraction. Besides which… that hound has no right to meddle in your business.” A flicker of anger wormed its way back to the surface of her manner as she spoke—though it was not at all connected to anything that had been done to Tertia.

Lady Hollowvale tightened her fingers on Clarimonde’s arm. “Family can be so trying sometimes,” she murmured. “I would never allow that disgusting creature at my table, if not for my brother. I have been overly generous today, I fear. Rather like you and your faerie servant, now that I think of it.” She paused at the door to the boudoir—and Clarimonde realised that Tertia expected the door to be opened for her. She hastily obliged the unspoken request, allowing them both into the room.

Tertia draped herself across the chaise with a heavy sigh. The sight was rather like a tangible painting of a woman, cast in stark, dramatic shadows. “Why do you keep him about?” she asked Clarimonde mildly.

“Who, Foxglove?” Clarimonde replied carefully. The change in subject made her breath quicken very slightly. “He is… useful. Obviously.”

Tertia offered her a patronising smile. “A puca?” she asked sceptically. “Oh, come now, Clarimonde. I can believe that he is something like a darling pet. But ‘useful’ seems an awfully terrible exaggeration.”

Clarimonde closed her fingers tightly in her skirts. “He carried my luggage,” she said. She tried to sound appropriately dismissive as she said it. “And he is warm at night, I suppose.”

Tertia’s eyes sharpened—and Clarimonde knew then that she had erred. “Is he?” she asked softly. “Oh, Clarimonde. You may be powerful, but you are still naive. You cannot trust a puca. Whatever promises he has made—whatever hold you might believe that you have over him—there is something that he wants from you.”

Clarimonde drew herself up slowly. “I know that,” she said calmly. “I am not the fool that either of you seem to think me. He is obviously intent upon seducing me—but I am no stranger to being used.”

Tertia’s expression softened with sympathy. “What a terrible little animal,” she said. “And Clarimonde… how could you settle for being used? You deserve so much better than that.”

Clarimonde had no idea how it was that Tertia made the words sound so convincing. Surely, she realised, the Leanansidhe had to believe them on some level.

A knot formed in her throat. She could not help some bitterness at the obvious parallels. “And would you love me better?” she asked Tertia. “I take it then that you no longer need your tasks. In that case, we should marry on the spot.”

Tertia laughed. “Oh, you are still being very clever,” she said. “But no, dear Clarimonde. I really must have what I’ve asked of you. I do not expect you to understand my situation—but now that Mr Brand is here, I am short on time. I do believe your promises to me… but I must know now how it is that you plan to carry them out.”

Clarimonde had been preparing herself for many uncomfortable questions… but this one made her expel a soft breath of relief. Though she had no intention of crafting any inspiration for Tertia, she had long since been forced by her professional curiosity to consider how she would have done so, under other circumstances.

“I have been pondering a formula,” Clarimonde said. “It will require certain ingredients which I did not bring here with me—but I intend to acquire them.”

Tertia crooked a finger, beckoning her closer. As Clarimonde obeyed the gesture, the Leanansidhe closed her hand in her collar, pulling her down to the chaise.