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“I am so very sorry,” she whispered to the fox. She took the watch chain’s t-bar to the padlock first—and then, on second thought, pulled out her pen knife too. “I should have searched harder for you. I thought… no, it doesn’t matter what I thought. I was wrong, and you have paid an awful price.”

Now, the fox did open its eyes. Foxglove opened her mouth to speak… but only a small animal whine escaped her throat. She sagged back to the bed with a defeated expression.

Clarimonde pressed a reassuring hand to her back. “I am so relieved that you are alive, though,” she mumbled thickly. “I was terrified that I would not reach you in time.”

This time, when Clarimonde returned to the padlock, her pen knife snapped uncomfortably. She caught her breath, briefly terrified… but something had apparently given way. The padlock loosened, and she eased it open. Very gently, she unwound the iron chain.

In between breaths, the fox became a woman in a tattered brown frock. Foxglove’s lovely white hair was now tangled and matted with blood; livid burns crossed the pale skin of her arms and coiled horribly around her elegant neck.

There were other burns upon her face—a great many of them—like angry slashes across a beautiful portrait. It was clear that they had been crafted with loving, vicious care.

Clarimonde had come to think of herself as a stoic, sensible woman. But the sight of this last deliberate, petty cruelty made her burst abruptly into tears.

Foxglove closed her fingers gently around Clarimonde’s hand. The faerie’s skin was cool—but for once, there was an odd warmth behind her uncanny blue eyes.

“You have never cried in front of me before,” she murmured hoarsely. “How awful, Miss Betony. I do not like it at all.”

Clarimonde pressed a trembling hand to her mouth, struggling to regain her composure. Another wracking sob escaped her control, despite her best efforts.

“Please do not comfort me right now,” she managed. “I do not deserve it.”

Foxglove tugged Clarimonde’s hand closer, until it was safely nestled against her heart. The soft, even beat there calmed the edges of Clarimonde’s grief—but it did not touch her self-recrimination.

“And what do you believe you deserve, Miss Betony?” Foxglove asked softly. “You denied an ancient evil for my sake. You had no plan; surely, you did not truly expect to survive the experience. But still, I do not think that it ever entered your mind to abandon me.” She fell briefly quiet, and a pained expression flickered across her features. “Meanwhile, you were right to mistrust me. I have not been a friend to you.”

Clarimonde opened her mouth to protest—but Foxglove reached up to press a clumsy finger to her lips. “When the Leanansidhe caught me,” the faerie said, “it was only that terrible truth which saved you. I told her honestly that I have spent every spare moment here searching for my name. I believed, I suppose, that I would become powerful again and reclaim this realm, and give you the harp when I was done… but we both know that would never have happened.” She closed her eyes wearily, and her finger dropped from Clarimonde’s lips. “I have looked into my own face now and remembered who I was before. I was no better than the current Lady Hollowvale.”

“You are better now,” Clarimonde whispered. “You could have bargained with Tertia and tried to save yourself. You could have told her everything about me, about Winnie and Mr Quincy and the harp. But you didn’t.”

A dreamy smile crossed Foxglove’s face. “Oh, but I couldn’t do that,” she corrected Clarimonde. “The thought occurred to me, of course! But the words simply would not cross my lips.” She threaded her fingers slowly through Clarimonde’s. “I have never felt that way before, Miss Betony—as though I could not possibly be moved. I was still miserably weak… but I was strong in ways that I have never been before. I do not think I could have been that strong if it was only for myself. In fact… I think I must have learned it from you.”

For several seconds, Clarimonde could not reply. The transcendent expression on Foxglove’s face was utterly at odds with the terrible injuries that she still carried. That Clarimonde could be so brokenhearted over something that had left Foxglove so pleased was beyond her comprehension.

“You must know the story by now,” Foxglove told her in a wavering voice. “How it was I first gave up my name. I have never told anyone, Miss Betony—it is too shameful!—but I never found a new name. I have spent so many years trying to undo my original choice, instead of wondering what I might yet become.” Her blue eyes slitted open again. “I do not know yet what my name will be… but I felt it, only for a moment. It is there inside of me—and one day, I will understand it. I think… I hope… that it might be a name you would find pleasing.”

Always, there had been a hint of hesitance and calculation in the faerie’s voice, even when she was being reasonably honest. But this time, Clarimonde heard nothing of the sort. There was instead a clear and utterly unguarded sincerity that struck her through the heart.

Clarimonde reached out gently with her other hand to comb a knot from Foxglove’s hair. Dried mud fell away, scattering across the cloth of gold blanket. “I am already pleased,” she mumbled. “I mean to say that… I am deeply touched. I want so much for you to learn your name, Miss Fox. I have no doubt that it is beautiful.” She blinked back another veil of tears. “I should see to these injuries. Please tell me you still have the violet perfume?”

Foxglove sighed. “I left it in a drawer of the dressing table when I borrowed Miss Molinari’s frock,” she said. She leaned into Clarimonde’s fingers at her hair, as though reluctant to lose them. “It will not heal what iron has injured, though. You know that.”

Clarimonde rose to retrieve the perfume, ignoring the faerie’s protests. “Perhaps that’s so,” she murmured, “but it will bring you comfort.” She sat herself upon the edge of the bed and dabbed the perfume gingerly at Foxglove’s cheek, where a painful burn circled up towards her right eye. The puca flinched at first—but soon relaxed minutely, as the sweet scent of violets wafted on the air.

“We really must plan for tomorrow,” Foxglove pointed out, in a faintly strained tone. “I did not survive all of this only to let the Leanansidhe skin you alive.”

Clarimonde traced another of the faerie’s burns with a soft grimace. “Well, we certainly do not have enough time to find the harp—” she began.

“Oh!” Foxglove let out a soft, raspy laugh beneath her hand. “But I have found it.”

Clarimonde stopped. “You… have?” she asked incredulously. “But you just said that you have not been searching for it!”

Foxglove shrugged minutely beneath her hand. “I wasn’t,” she admitted. “And yet—I found it all the same, very nearly by accident. It is in the boudoir, you see. We simply were not looking at it properly.” She smiled coyly, despite the obvious pain that it caused. “A mirror within Faerie is never just a mirror, Miss Betony—you recall? But there is a mirror in the boudoir… and it leads to another boudoir. The harp is there.”

Foxglove grimaced. “Granted, I do not know that it will do us much good; it was missing several strings. I tried to play it even so, out of curiosity, and I could not draw a single note from it. I am nearly certain that the harp would sound for you… but you do not have the skill to play a song upon it, and we both know that is because I neglected to teach you.”

Clarimonde nodded reluctantly. “I would not wager my survival on a half-strung harp,” she agreed grimly. There was no point, she thought, in agreeing with the puca’s other point; what had passed was already well past. “Very well—the harp will not serve us. What else do we have at our disposal?”

Foxglove fell into thoughtful silence. The pause extended for a very long while, as Clarimonde tended to the burns on the faerie’s left arm. “Why fight at all, when we can flee?” Foxglove asked finally. “We could steal the harp and go elsewhere. You have made some sort of understanding with the Hound, haven’t you?”