Page 5

Lord Foxglove studied Bellamira intently, measuring the sincerity in her manner. “The hound pursues us, then,” he said reluctantly. His icy blue eyes flickered over to Clarimonde, beside him. “He caught you briefly, Miss Betony—I remember it. He must have stolen a strand of your hair and given it to his black dog.”

Clarimonde let out a frustrated sound. “I take it his black dog can chase us anywhere?” she guessed.

“Anywhere at all,” Lord Foxglove said grimly. “In this world or in Faerie… as long as the object of its search is with us.” His gaze sharpened on Clarimonde—and suddenly, she had the impression that he was considering whether he might get away with tossing her out of the carriage entirely.

Clarimonde lifted her eyes to his in a direct challenge, reaching for her valise. Perhaps Foxglove was beyond her power, as a lord of Faerie—but he was not currently within his realm, whatever it was, and she was certain that she could make him badly regret the decision currently solidifying behind his eyes.

“I know very little about black dogs,” Bellamira said, clearly unaware of the sudden tension in the air. “But I know much of magic, and of Mr Brand himself. We have crossed paths many times. I believe that I can handle this.”

Her confident declaration interrupted the silent pressure brewing between Clarimonde and Foxglove. The faerie reached up to adjust his neckcloth. “And what do you propose, exactly?” he asked.

Bellamira did not answer him directly. Instead, she shifted forwards with an awkward rustle of skirts, as though to switch places with Lord Foxglove. “Take down your hair, Clarimonde,” she said. “Quickly, please. I’ll need to braid it.”

Lord Foxglove held up his hand. “I am quite capable with braids,” he assured Bellamira. “I can handle the task.” He tilted his head in order to display his long ponytail of white-blond hair. Bellamira settled back into her seat with a mollified nod of her head.

Clarimonde did not bother arguing with her sister. Instead, she began removing the pins that kept her updo in place. A moment later, Foxglove joined her in the work, flicking hairpins free with admirable facility. His long fingers were so exacting, in fact, that she barely felt them at all. His touch ghosted past her skin like a lazy breeze; where it passed, hair seemed to tumble free of its own accord. For some reason, Clarimonde’s breath hitched at the sensation with irritating awareness.

That awareness only sharpened further as Foxglove gathered up her hair in his hands. It was, Clarimonde realised, a bizarrely intimate feeling, having a man touch her hair—even for such exigent reasons. Faeries had such strange standards of conduct, though, that Lord Foxglove probably felt nothing odd about it. Had she done something so banal as to ask his full name, however—as he had done to her—she might have mortally insulted him.

“Oh, just a small braid,” Bellamira interjected, as Foxglove began to weave Clarimonde’s hair together. “I will be cutting it off, after all.” Clarimonde’s sister had begun to pull down her rough black hair as well, sticking pins between her lips.

Foxglove swiftly backtracked his progress, taking a much smaller band of Clarimonde’s hair between his fingers. “Split ends,” he sighed as he worked. “I take it you don’t oil your hair?”

Clarimonde bristled beneath his touch. “My hair has never been my first priority,” she said tightly.

“I meant no insult,” the faerie told her mildly. “I simply wondered if you knew it was an option. Your hair is dry, but just a bit of oil would do wonders. It would tangle less, as well.”

The practical advice left Clarimonde feeling oddly off-balance. “I have… other things to worry about,” she mumbled self-consciously. “My ongoing presence in this carriage, for instance.”

Lord Foxglove did not answer—but Clarimonde thought she felt him stiffen for just an instant, as she voiced the observation aloud.

“I always end up putting on too much oil,” Bellamira sighed, still comfortably oblivious to the tension between the other two people in the carriage. “I have given up entirely on my hair, unless I am dressing up for a seance.” Clarimonde’s sister finished off her own tiny braid, before tugging at a silver chain around her neck. This produced a small knife from within her corsetry, which she used to snip the braid away from her scalp. Bellamira knotted the hair at both ends and offered it out to Clarimonde, along with her little knife.

Clarimonde took Bellamira’s braid uneasily. “What am I to do with this?” she asked her sister. Foxglove reached past her to pluck the knife from Bellamira—and just a moment later, Clarimonde felt a shiver of air against her neck, where her own braid had been cut away.

“Well, you are going to pin my hair against your own, of course,” Bellamira told her matter-of-factly. “And I will wear your braid, Clarimonde. With just a bit of magic, I can make the black dog think that you are me and I am you. I will lead it on a merry chase.”

Clarimonde sat up straighter in her seat. “Absolutely not!” she burst out sharply. “Mr Brand will catch you, Bellamira. I shudder to think what he might do to you. You are a black magician too, as far as the Lord Sorcier is concerned.”

Bellamira waved a hand, as though this very reasonable concern was actually quite silly. “I told you earlier,” she said. “I have crossed paths with Mr Brand before. I have no doubt that he would harm you if he caught you, Clarimonde… but he will never lay a hand on me. He has had ample opportunity to do so, many times already.”

She snatched Clarimonde’s dark brown braid from Lord Foxglove’s hand and started winding it through her hair, slowly replacing her pins as she went.

Clarimonde did not share her sister’s casual optimism on the matter. “And what if you are wrong, Bellamira?” she demanded. “Mr Brand is not a human being; he is something far more terrible, if asafoetida affects him as it does.”

Bellamira paused, partway through sticking a hairpin into her updo. She lifted her dark eyes to Clarimonde’s face with a serene, familiar calm upon her features. “If I am wrong,” she said, “then I will die. But I am due for that, regardless. I feel it coming, Clarimonde. Hugh has done his best—but my heart has only so much strength remaining. If Mr Brand attempts to terrify or torment me, he will only kill me sooner. I think somehow he knows that. It is why he has not bothered to pursue me; I am a problem that will solve itself.”

Horrible silence settled into the carriage at this revelation. Clarimonde felt the words sink into her chest, sick and terribly suffocating. She opened her mouth to speak—but realised belatedly that she did not know what she intended to say. Instead, her throat closed up, and the silence deepened further.

Bellamira offered her sister an oddly sympathetic look. It was clear that the idea of her death bothered her far less than the effects that it might have on her family. “I have lived far longer than I should have done,” she told Clarimonde gently. “I am grateful for that, Clarimonde. I value my own life; I do not rush off to my death with eagerness. But I have only so much time left—and this is how I choose to spend it.”

Clarimonde fought back a surge of panicked grief, as hot tears stung at her eyes. For so long, she had known that Bellamira was dying—it was her natural state. But Hugh had made such strides in her care, improving her ability to flit about as though nothing was the matter at all. Somehow, Clarimonde had managed to convince herself that Bellamira would not really die.

“I don’t want to lose you,” Clarimonde rasped. It was the only thing that she could think to say. It was the deepest truth she had to offer, in the moment.

Bellamira smiled. “I know,” she said softly. “So long ago, I asked you what you wished to do with the time that you have been given… and you chose to spend it with me. I cannot express how happy that made me.” She reached out to close her hand around Clarimonde’s, threading their fingers together gently. “You gave me your time, Clarimonde—and now, I will give you mine. I love you so very dearly… and Winnie, too. Please tell her that.”

Lord Foxglove closed his hand on Clarimonde’s shoulder. A jolt of alarm leapt through her, as she remembered that she was on guard against being tossed out of the hearse—but the faerie only tightened his grip briefly, as though to offer comfort.