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The shadowy hound stopped pacing. Very slowly, it settled back upon its haunches and turned its head towards Clarimonde.

Mr Brand reached down absently to scratch behind its ear.

“We are alone,” he told Clarimonde. “You could attack me, and Lady Hollowvale would probably pretend she did not know. Or else…” He shrugged, with a hint of dark amusement. “I could tell you all of the things I dare not speak within her presence.”

Clarimonde chewed at her lower lip. Surely, there could be no benefit to whatever it was Mr Brand intended to tell her; he would not have offered to do so if there was benefit to anyone but him.

Nevertheless… it might be instructive to let him speak. In the process, she thought, she might discover something of his angle.

“Bellamira Wilder is alive,” said Mr Brand.

Clarimonde sucked in a sharp breath. Her heart quickened in her chest, even as she realised that she had been deftly manipulated; her careful concentration was now utterly shredded as she tried to understand the implications. Above it all, a single thought began to frantically repeat itself: Bellamira is alive. Bellamira is alive! My sister is still alive!

Mr Brand inclined his head at her. “She is not well, of course,” he cautioned. “She was already ailing by the time that I crossed paths with her. I have left her with her physician, Mr Hugh Wilder. If she passes in my absence, she will be among family.”

“Why?” Clarimonde asked hoarsely. “Why would you do that? You have chased me all the way to Whitby because of my magic. You had her in your grasp, and you just… let her go?”

Mr Brand looked away. There was an odd expression on his face that he had not shown before—something softer and less certain than he had presented in front of Tertia. “A dying woman is no threat to the Lord Sorcier,” he said quietly. “I am obliged to carry out his wishes… but I have chosen to employ my judgement in the process. She is a kind creature, and a friend to the dead. As long as she does not trouble him before she passes, he will not know enough to mind her existence.”

Until that moment, Clarimonde had been certain that Mr Brand was deceiving her… but now, the only deception she detected was something he had directed at himself. The discovery was jarring—it left her wildly unstable, even as she took in the shadowy hound that still stared her down just next to him.

Right now, she thought, Mr Brand will not harm me. But his hound would kill me in a heartbeat, if it thought I was a danger.

“You know better than that,” Clarimonde said dazedly. “The Lord Sorcier would be upset with you, I am certain.” Perhaps, she thought belatedly, she should not have spoken the words aloud. But she had been holding back so many truths lately—for better or for worse—that she could not help the honest observation this time.

“I have known Secundus for an age,” said Mr Brand coolly. The softness on his features had now fled, replaced by a calmer and less sympathetic mask. “I doubt that you have ever met him directly; you would not be here if you had done. Thus, I will take my own counsel on the matter.”

Clarimonde frowned at him. “You are still here to bring me back to him then,” she said. “I am no dying woman, like Bellamira.”

“Of course,” Mr Brand said smoothly. “I have been ordered to hunt you—and I will. But this is Lady Hollowvale’s realm, and she is a precious ally to her brother. Breaking hospitality would be an act of war upon her, and beyond my purview as his servant. Whatever reward she has promised you in return for these tasks, moreover, might put you permanently beyond my power. In that case, I would be obliged to exercise my judgement once again and return to the Lord Sorcier empty-handed, in order to ask for his advice on the matter.”

Clarimonde stared at him. Gradually, she forced herself to reassess his behaviour in light of these revelations. Is it possible, she wondered, that Mr Brand would prefer for me to succeed at these tasks, so that he is forced to return home empty-handed? Is that why he has been so keen on finding out what they might be?

“Which brings me to my main point,” Mr Brand continued conversationally. He turned to rub affectionately beneath his great hound’s chin. “I suppose you are aware that the Miss Molinari I was protecting was truly an imposter. The puca was meant to hold my attention. Instead, she has slipped away from me in order to pursue her own agenda. I have been awake far longer than my cousins, Miss Betony; I know the story of the first Lady Hollowvale and how it was that she gave up her name.”

Mr Brand lifted his head to look at her again. “But do you know that story?” he asked her softly.

Clarimonde did not dare to lie. “I do not know it,” she admitted quietly.

And this is the faerie tale that Mr Gabriel Brand told her, on the foggy steps of Jacob’s Ladder.

CHAPTER 16

Many ages ago, before humanity was freed from its servitude to Faerie, there was a terrible white rook—as large as a storm cloud and as pitiless as the sky. When her shadow passed across the sun, mortals cowered below in fear and wonder, marvelling over that which might consume them. And in this age, every creature was her prey and every world her hunting ground.

Eventually, the great rook decided that she required a rookery as grand as she was. Surely, any realm in Faerie would have been honoured to have her—but none, she decided, were worthy enough to suit her taste. Instead, she flew deep into the empty mists beyond all that was known and there cried life into the void.

The new realm that answered her was therefore fashioned in her image. Vast and predatory and convinced of its own greatness, Hollowvale adopted its first lady with overwhelming pride. And surely, both Hollowvale and its lady assumed that they would remain forever in each other’s company.

But power is a deadly poison to the spirit—especially to those who live too long. As time marched on, Lady Hollowvale’s favourite pursuits ceased to entertain her, and grand hunts crumbled into meaningless monotony. The great rook turned to her realm for diversion… but Hollowvale could offer nothing new of substance, for it was crafted from her own vainglorious reflection.

The desperation of an empty heart is beyond most people’s reckoning. The once-great rook, now tied to a world that worshipped her existence and obeyed her every whim, began to wither into nothing.

It was a slow and silent death that came for her. There was not even any pain—for pain might have carried some measure of excitement. Instead, Lady Hollowvale’s white feathers molted and lost their sheen; she ceased to haunt the skies, and prey forgot the sight of her passing before the sun. Eventually, Lady Hollowvale laid herself down to sleep—but she could not sleep, and she could not dream, and she could not feel, for her soul had been made barren.

In her last moments, Lady Hollowvale became aware of her own doom, and a final panic overcame her. Perhaps some lingering animal instinct towards survival saved her; either way, she purged the poison that had caused her malaise and managed to cast out the source of her terrible sickness.

In that moment, the great rook was no more—for Lady Hollowvale had given up her name.