Page 46

To Clarimonde, the statement seemed to be an utterly transparent ploy. Mother Barclay was far from feeble; she had climbed the steps to Whitby Abbey several times now, after all. But Miss Molinari wanted it to be true. There was an openly starved expression upon her features, as she closed her fingers around Mother Barclay’s hand. It was a similar desperation to that which sometimes surfaced around Tertia.

“I would… need to inform Lady Hollowvale,” Miss Molinari said dubiously. “And all of my things are still at the abbey.” These last excuses were paper thin. Clarimonde recognised that it was her duty to knock them down.

“I will inform Lady Hollowvale on your behalf,” Clarimonde said. “And I can easily retrieve your things. Perhaps Lord Foxglove will even be willing to loan you his carriage—so long as you do not mind travelling unconventionally.”

“What a generous offer, Miss Betony,” Mother Barclay said cheerfully. The old nurse pushed up to her feet with far more verve than she had previously claimed. “Why don’t we see what I can find for you in the garden before you go—in return for all of your trouble.”

Miss Molinari blinked owlishly over her tea. The conversation had now shifted entirely out of her control, with two of the three people present acting as though she had already agreed to this plan. Though she glanced anxiously between the two of them, however, she did not seem quite brave enough to protest, as Mother Barclay led Clarimonde out a back door into the small kitchen garden beyond.

The garden space was admittedly compact, squeezed between the house and the cliff that rose behind it—but it was large enough to accommodate two people comfortably, at least. Vines crept along the walls, currently leaf-bare in the autumn chill. Several useful herbs had been neatly tucked into their own boxes. At a glance, Clarimonde took in applemint, agrimony, heliotrope, and—thank goodness—a large burst of rosemary in a ceramic pot near the back of the garden.

Curiously, she realised, Whitby’s ever-present fog was absent here. Though it roiled above them, blotting out the sky, it seemed oddly wary of descending into Mother Barclay’s garden.

“I already have balsam salve on hand, of course,” Mother Barclay said mildly, as she closed the door behind them. “I believe that it should suffice for Miss Molinari’s condition, as long as she is not further injured.”

Technically, Clarimonde thought, her bargain with Tertia would be better served if she were to craft the salve herself. But goodness knew, she did not really intend to marry Tertia—and she had no intention of delaying Molinari’s departure long enough to brew the magic up herself.

Clarimonde leaned down to inspect the rosemary plant carefully. It was healthy and well cared for; she suspected that it would serve her purposes admirably. “You are really taking Miss Molinari all the way to Bath?” she asked softly. “Do you believe that she will stay?”

Mother Barclay smiled ruefully. “One can never truly say what a patient will do,” she replied. “I can only offer her another option, and encourage her to seize it. But the poor dear does deserve at least one chance at something better.” She gestured at the rosemary plant. “Take a few cuttings, by all means.”

Clarimonde pulled out her pen knife in order to gingerly snip a few sprigs into her handkerchief. “I am very grateful for your help,” she admitted. “I do not know that I could ever have convinced Miss Molinari to leave on my own.”

Mother Barclay raised her eyebrows. “And what of you, Miss Betony?” she asked. “I do not fully understand your aims. You know enough to send away Miss Molinari—but you will not save yourself?”

Clarimonde fell into silence. She bundled up the handkerchief and tucked it into her pocket as she considered her reply. Finally, she said: “I am not one of Lady Hollowvale’s victims; not yet, in any case. One might say that I have engaged her in a battle of wills. Such battles, with faeries, can take many forms.”

Mother Barclay pondered this idea. “You mentioned a need for other herbs,” she said slowly. “If there is anything else in my garden that would help—in addition to the rosemary, I mean to say—then you may have it.”

Clarimonde frowned at her as she stood again. “I have very little money with me,” she admitted. “But I can promise you a favour or a bit of magic, in return.”

Mother Barclay scoffed at her. “I will not ask for payment,” she said. “I only demanded from Miss Molinari something that would aid in her recovery. I do not charge my poorest patients, Miss Betony—nor will I ask you for money or favours in order to protect you from a monster.”

Mother Barclay spoke the words as though they were self-evident. But the simple reply struck Clarimonde so deeply that suddenly, she found herself fighting back tears. A surge of inexplicable emotion overcame her as she stood in that tiny kitchen garden, hidden away from Hollowvale’s smothering, sinister influence.

“I am so grateful,” Clarimonde rasped. She reached up to wipe at her eyes. “Oh… bother. I have just realised how accustomed I have become to being surrounded by selfishness. I had begun to believe I was the fool that everyone else says I am, for believing that people should care for one another.”

Mother Barclay offered out her own small cotton handkerchief, since Clarimonde’s handkerchief was otherwise occupied. Clarimonde took it from her with a soft sniffle.

“There is nothing foolish about that at all,” Mother Barclay told her soothingly. “How miserable all of those people must be, Miss Betony! We do not build villages in order to live alone. It is not only right to offer generosity—it is joyful. I am so pleased right now, you see, to have eased your hardships in some way. It makes me powerful for just a moment, in ways that magic never will.”

Clarimonde swallowed down a knot in her throat. She had grown isolated at Whitby Abbey, and befuddled by its magic. Between Mr Brand and Lady Hollowvale and even Lord Foxglove, her paranoia had reached terrible heights. But here in this garden, it was suddenly easier to remember that Mr Beagle had lied on her behalf, and Bellamira had given up her life for her, and dearest Winnie had outfitted her with lovely gowns and all of the magic that she could muster on short notice.

“I am not alone,” Clarimonde said. She spoke the words aloud to herself, with great relief.

“Of course not, dear,” Mother Barclay said simply. “You must not let that terrible creature convince you that everything out here is as ugly as she is. She may have conquered Whitby, for the moment… but she cannot steal what makes us human.”

CHAPTER 15

“Hollowvale is not a pleasant realm—but it is, perhaps, more pleasant now than it has ever been before. Its current lady is an aberration among faeries; she is very nearly as kind as she is terrifying. I have never forgotten what Hollowvale has been before, however… and what it might yet be again, if she should ever leave.”

LORD ELIAS WILDER TO MISS CLARIMONDE BETONY, AGE 10

Mother Barclay forced a cheese butty upon Clarimonde before she left to gather Miss Molinari’s things. Though the bread was a bit stale, and the filling was clearly from the evening before, the food was curiously more solid in her stomach than the luxurious banquet from Tertia’s table had been. It gave her the strength, at least, to climb Jacob’s Ladder once again.

The fog laid heavily upon the stairs, curled around them like a sullen cat. Thick tendrils licked at Clarimonde’s feet as she climbed the steps, as though the mist was considering how edible she might be.

The ominous sense that she was being watched had returned. Perhaps, she thought, the creature in the fog had taken fresh interest in her as the evening crept in. Perhaps she simply made a more tempting target now that she was alone. Either way, the presence she had felt on the way to Sunday service now circled her hungrily.