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She slept uneasily, snared within a mottled web of dreams. Hollowvale’s endless fog had caught her; there was no fire in the distance, no sign of where to wander. But she knew that there were creatures in the darkness; distant howls nipped at her heels, echoing strangely on the air.

Winnie was beside her in the fog—but she was not being hunted. Instead, she walked calmly next to Clarimonde, looking down at her with cold, unfeeling eyes.

“Do you know what your future holds?” Winnie asked evenly, as Clarimonde stumbled along. “I could show you, Clarimonde, if you would like.”

Clarimonde clung desperately to her sister’s hand. “I am waiting,” she replied. “I told you I would wait. I will not look at my future unless I must.”

Winnie pressed a card into Clarimonde’s hand. “Remember your past then,” she told her. “In any case, the past becomes the future. We never do break free of it, do we?”

Clarimonde looked down at the card in her hand. It showed a bloody, blinded woman, stumbling through a briar.

The Mendicant of Desires. Winnie often used a faerie deck when she was performing divinations. This card—the card of starving need and ill-advised decisions—had often represented Clarimonde in those readings.

“I refuse to let this control me any further,” Clarimonde rasped. She knew, even as she spoke the words, that they were coloured with fear.

“Of course it controls you,” Winnie said. “It drives you to control yourself. Who would you be without it, Clarimonde Betony?”

The howling behind them rose with renewed intensity. Clarimonde’s foot caught upon an unseen root; she tumbled to the ground, clawing for purchase. Winnie was gone. Hounds now circled in her place, closing in with obvious hunger.

Someone knocked at her bedroom door.

Clarimonde startled awake.

Hours had passed while she dreamed, she was certain—but Foxglove was still missing. The realisation made her heart spike with worry, even as the knock sounded firmly once again.

A weary maid stood on the other side of the door. “Her Ladyship has requested your presence at breakfast,” she informed Clarimonde. “She’s most insistent. Says you mustn’t miss it.”

Clarimonde tried to keep her face carefully neutral, as alarming possibilities surged at the back of her mind. Had Clarimonde left something out of place in the other house? Had Tertia somehow discovered her wanderings the evening before?

A horrible, gut-wrenching idea struck her. What if Foxglove has paid the price for my clumsiness? What if that is why he is not here?

“I will be down shortly,” Clarimonde promised.

She tugged on the blue wool gown and pulled a comb half-heartedly through her hair—but there was little fixing her bedraggled appearance without Foxglove’s clever assistance. Finally, Clarimonde abandoned the effort; instead, she dabbed herself with eau de cologne impériale and prayed that the scent of power would hide the worst of her exhaustion and uncertainty.

By the time Clarimonde reached the abbey’s nave, Tertia was already seated at the head of the banquet table. In fact, she was in rare form this morning—she had outfitted herself in a high-collared frock coat and knee-length breeches, with tall black boots shined to perfection. The weary air that normally hung over the table had been touched again with temporary fever, as Tertia’s obvious excitement infected all those present.

Even Mr Brand, seated at the far end of the table, had been subtly infected by the nervous energy on the air; his hound was pacing just behind his seat, and he had yet to touch the food before him.

Tertia gave a lovely, tinkling laugh as Clarimonde descended the stairs. “Oh, Clarimonde!” she cooed. “Here—I have saved a seat for you just next to me! What a day we are about to have; I cannot wait to show you!”

Somehow, Clarimonde found herself even more taken aback by Tertia’s enthusiasm than she might have been by her anger. Very rarely, she had realised, did Tertia’s happiness mean anything pleasant.

Gradually, Clarimonde made her way to the empty seat. As she settled there, Tertia offered her a knowing, sympathetic smile. “You look terrible,” she observed, with a certain amount of relish. “Did you have trouble sleeping, darling? Do have some tea.”

Clarimonde frowned as Tertia deigned to pour a cup for her, staring down at it with perplexion. “I… did have trouble sleeping,” Clarimonde admitted slowly. “Why do you ask?”

Tertia patted her hand. “Well you were alone, of course,” she pointed out. “That horrid animal has finally abandoned you. I warned you that she would.”

Cold terror snaked abruptly through Clarimonde’s limbs, stealing away her breath. The choice of words was notable; only the day before, Foxglove had been wearing Miss Molinari’s form. Clarimonde looked at Tertia more closely, observing the fresh flush of delight in her cheeks. Her mouth went dry. “How do you know that?” she rasped.

Tertia’s lips curved with deep satisfaction. “Oh, the little fox has told me everything,” she said. “She didn’t wish to, obviously; she thought she could play childish word games. But iron is an excellent convincer.”

For several seconds, Clarimonde could not manage to respond. The frantic beating of her heart had drowned her thoughts entirely. The horror on her face was obvious, she knew.

“What have you done?” Clarimonde asked hoarsely. “Foxglove is your guest.”

Tertia’s smile took on a frigid edge. “The puca intended to betray us both, Miss Betony,” she said. “She has admitted to it fully. She hoped to steal my realm from me. I caught her… well. It does not matter where I caught her. She was somewhere she should not have been, most certainly.” A chill breeze whispered across Clarimonde’s cheek, as though to punctuate Tertia’s displeasure. “I could revoke your guest right too, if I were so inclined—but she admitted you knew nothing of her plans. Your innocence is disappointing… but perhaps forgivable.”