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Clarimonde stared helplessly as the people around her shed their bloody skins, revealing sleek black fur and hungry eyes. Long, eerie limbs and wicked teeth flashed in the darkness, attached to huddled canine forms. Tertia cooed over each new terrifying hound that emerged, caressing her pets with eager delight.

“It is time to put away your human mercy,” Mr Brand murmured to Clarimonde. “They have made their choice; it cannot be undone. Look upon your enemies, and know that they will tear you apart if you allow it.”

Clarimonde turned a sharp look upon him—but she did not dare to respond, for Tertia had threaded her way back through the pack of hounds to stand before them both.

Somehow, the Leanansidhe was even more sickeningly beautiful in that moment; her reddish eyes were bright, her bloody lips full, her pale skin flushed with maddened ecstasy. She was the living picture of the goddess Artemis on a moonless night. Despite the shredded, discarded skins that surrounded her, Clarimonde still understood the destructive impulse that might lead a hunter to abandon everything for the chance to kiss her leather gloved hand.

Tertia had been holding something else in her hand, Clarimonde saw now—a scrap of familiar brown wool, torn from the frock that Foxglove had last been wearing while disguised as Miss Molinari. The Leanansidhe tossed it down behind her, as hounds scrabbled eagerly over one another in order to catch its scent.

“Bring me the puca, Clarimonde, before the others do,” Tertia ordered her breathlessly. “If not… then perhaps we will hunt you, and see how long you manage to survive.”

Clarimonde did not dare to dwell upon the threat. Instead, she set her jaw and strode for the nearest horse.

She had ridden a horse exactly once in her life, of course, on her way to Euston station. But she had little choice other than to make the attempt again; she could not possibly outpace the hounds on foot.

The horse was obedient, at least, and willing to endure her embarrassing attempts to mount it. Tertia laughed scornfully as Clarimonde finally fumbled her way atop the horse’s back—but her hammering pulse had long since drowned out any self-consciousness.

The wood was dark and ominous, even with Clarimonde’s glimmering parasol to light the way. Riding a horse through that fog was flatly impossible—even if she managed to stay on its back, the horse would surely lame itself within the first few minutes.

Thank goodness, she thought, that Foxglove had so readily handled the man on the train; the small vial of magical perfume that she kept on hand for safe travels was still full.

Mr Brand had mounted his horse in one smooth movement; but Clarimonde paid him no mind, as she dabbed the perfume along her horse’s neck. The heady herbal scent of mugwort dissipated into the air, mixing with the forest around them. Clarimonde’s horse shifted beneath her with sudden impatience.

Mr Brand took off, apparently unbothered by the prospect of riding through the darkness. Tertia’s hounds bolted after him with a keen, rising howl.

Clarimonde did not dare to linger. She urged her horse onwards, and prayed that there was enough perfume in the vial to last for the entire hunt.

Though Clarimonde’s riding was clumsy, her magic smoothed the way. Each stride felt perfectly even; tree branches whipped safely past her, just a breath away from connecting with her face. Her horse’s ease was barely an advantage, however, given that she had no reasonable way to follow Foxglove’s scent.

Perhaps, she thought worriedly, she could convince Foxglove to find her instead.

“Foxglove!” she called into the trees. “I am here! You must come to me, please!”

How expansive was the forest? There was no way of knowing. It could go on forever, couldn’t it?

But no. Foxglove had told Clarimonde that crafting things in Faerie required work. Tertia had created this forest in the space of only a few hours—and if the Leanansidhe’s endless unfinished canvasses were any indication, Clarimonde realised, then Tertia was truly incapable of applying herself to anything with genuine rigour. The forest was almost certainly smaller than it appeared to be. If she continued calling out, then surely Foxglove would eventually hear her.

“Foxglove!” she cried again. “Foxglove⁠—”

Her horse reared abruptly, weaving drunkenly aside. Clarimonde slipped partway off its back, clawing at the saddle for stability, as a dark shape hurtled past them both with a snarl.

One of Tertia’s hounds had doubled back. It was no longer hunting Foxglove, Clarimonde realised—it was hunting her. Only the power of her perfume had saved the horse from its first attack.

Clarimonde pulled herself laboriously back into the saddle, gasping for breath. If she fell, she knew, the hound would be upon her instantly, before she could begin to reach for any of her other magic. The horse backed away, snorting dangerously at the creature before it. The hound tensed, staring down the horse with unblinking human eyes—aware that even a glancing blow from one of those hooves might end its hunt forever.

The hound leapt. This time, Clarimonde met it with her parasol. The sturdy core of wood inside of it slammed against the creature’s head, batting it aside. The hound landed unsteadily—and Clarimonde’s horse lashed out, catching it across the face with one front hoof. The hound sprawled back across the fallen leaves of the forest, broken and unmoving.

Another growl alerted Clarimonde too late that there was a second hound at hand. She whirled to confront another of the creatures as it came upon her… but this one never reached her horse.

A different shadow intercepted it—larger, swifter, and more ominous by far. Tertia’s hound gave a whimpering squeal—quickly cut short—and then collapsed upon the ground.

Dark blood cascaded from its ragged, torn-out throat. The hound’s human eyes rolled with panic as it twitched through its death throes.

Mr Brand’s black dog settled onto its haunches, just beyond the dim ring of moonlight cast by Clarimonde’s parasol. It waited, still and patient, as she tried to recover her balance, averting her eyes from the sickening sight of the two dead hounds. As she regained her position, Clarimonde became aware that the dog was too still; like a statue in the mist, it did not breathe. Despite the burst of violence it had just unleashed, its stare was certain and unblinking.

And yet—as soon as Clarimonde was settled, the black dog trotted silently into the fog, in order to lead the way. Clarimonde’s horse followed it warily, apparently aware that it was being shepherded.

The hounds would have killed me, Clarimonde reminded herself frantically, as they passed the two dead creatures that had once been human. I could not save them. They would have killed me.