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There was a subtle threat beneath the words. Dimly, Clarimonde understood that she was still in danger… but she could not focus on the idea. Her mind returned over and over to the understanding that Tertia had taken iron to Foxglove. There was no greater torment for a faerie; the scars it left would pain her for the rest of her existence.

“Is she alive?” Clarimonde whispered.

Tertia sighed petulantly. “I thought you might react this way,” she said. “Finish your breakfast, Clarimonde; I have another task for you.” Her red-tinted eyes swept critically over Clarimonde’s figure. “You will need to dress more suitably, of course. You should wear better boots, at least, if we are to go hunting foxes.”

Tertia steadfastly refused to elaborate further on the matter of Clarimonde’s upcoming task until breakfast had concluded. This, it seemed, was a form of punishment all its own; now that Tertia had discovered a weakness in Clarimonde’s composure, she pursued it with great ruthlessness, sprinkling in terrible comments at her leisure.

“I had forgotten the way that foxes squeal when they are injured,” Tertia remarked idly—as though Clarimonde wanted to hear this particular detail. “What an unpleasant, high-pitched sound it is! If I had not been so intent on forcing it to speak, I might have cut away its tongue. I think I will do that, as soon as it has been hunted down again.”

This, Clarimonde decided, would not be happening. She did not know yet how she would prevent it from happening—but the idea was so unthinkable that she would die before allowing it.

Perhaps Foxglove had betrayed her in some ways… but even at the touch of iron, the faerie had said nothing at all to Tertia of Clarimonde’s true purpose, or of the harp that she was hoping to find. Clarimonde would not now be sitting at the breakfast table if she had.

Somehow, Foxglove had protected Clarimonde’s secrets at her own expense.

“You are not eating, Clarimonde,” Tertia observed, with mock concern. “You really must. You have such a day ahead of you.”

“You’re right,” said Clarimonde suddenly. “I do.”

Foxglove deserved better than her aimless panic and self-recrimination. Whatever the situation, the faerie would soon be entirely dependent upon Clarimonde’s assistance—and she would hardly be an impressive rescuer while she was swooning from hunger.

She forced herself to eat the food in front of her. The bread was ash on her tongue; the sausages were uncomfortable lumps in her throat. But the simple weight of the food made her feel more grounded in herself. The sharpest edges of her panic dulled, allowing her more room to think.

Finally, Clarimonde pushed herself up to her feet. “I will need to visit my room and change my dress,” she announced.

She cast a final glance back towards Mr Brand, still seated at the opposite end of the banquet table. Though he was reasonably distant, she felt his eyes weigh heavily upon her in return.

A dangerous idea struck her.

She turned back for the stairs as quickly as she could, before the thought could show upon her face.

As soon as Clarimonde had closed her bedroom door behind her, she began to search. She first checked the comb on top of the dressing table—but if Foxglove had used it, then she had clearly been fastidious enough to clean away any stray hairs. Clarimonde hurried then for the golden bed and peeled away the bedding, looking it over.

There was still a single long, white hair clinging to one of the pillows.

Clarimonde reached down gingerly to wind the hair around her index finger. Her heart gave a strange pang as she thought on how very fragile it was. After another moment of consideration, she pulled the brass watch from her pocket, and closed the coiled strand of hair within it.

Clarimonde did her best to ignore a niggling feeling of discomfort as she descended the stairs into the nave, now dressed in Foxglove’s shirt and trousers. Once the danger had passed, she knew that her missing corset would desperately embarrass her—but for the moment, at least, grim determination had smothered the rest of her feelings beneath pure practicality.

There was nothing for it; Foxglove’s clothing was simply the most suitable attire currently available to her. Despite being far too loose and far too tall for her frame, it was lighter than any of Lady Longfell’s skirts, and certainly less likely to catch upon something inconvenient.

Clarimonde’s glimmering lacy parasol did not suit the outfit very well—but it was bright enough to light her way through the ever-present fog outside and, in a pinch, more than sturdy enough to ruin someone’s day.

The atmosphere around the banquet table had tightened with further excitement, as guests prepared themselves for the hunt. Though most of them were likely artists, or poets, or sculptors, Clarimonde suspected that a few of them had been hunting before, based on their behaviour.

Nevertheless, Clarimonde’s primary competition was obvious to all involved. Mr Brand stood next to Tertia at the head of the table, with a deferential cast to his posture. His great black dog rested at his feet—though Clarimonde thought that it was watching Tertia warily from the floor.

“Clarimonde, darling!” Tertia turned to greet her, already visibly flushed with anticipation. “You have come the wrong way. We will be fox hunting within Hollowvale today, on the other side of the abbey. I have made all of the necessary arrangements.”

Clarimonde clenched her jaw, in an attempt to keep her expression carefully neutral. “I see,” she said. “And… it seems that several others will be joining us for this hunt.”

Tertia laughed. “Oh, it would not be very much of a task if it was easy,” she replied. “I will be fox hunting too—and my brother’s loyal hound, of course. But you must find the puca before any of the rest of us do, and then give it over to my keeping. Do that, and I will consider your task to be complete.”

Clarimonde curled her fingers tightly into her palms. “I understand,” she said, in a clipped voice.

Tertia swept past her to ascend the stairs. The rest of the gathering followed in her wake, passing Clarimonde one by one.

Mr Brand waited until the others had crossed before him. Finally, his hound rose up and stretched with a great yawn, and he too turned for the stairs.