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Clarimonde shook her head. “It was a temporary understanding,” she said. “He will still hunt me as soon as Tertia withdraws her protection. And…” She winced. “The hearse is gone. I sent it to Bath with Miss Molinari. It will return at some point, I presume—but I do not know when that will be.”

A thought occurred to her then, abruptly. Clarimonde drew her hands back and reached into the pocket of her borrowed trousers to retrieve the brass pocket watch there.

“You could leave, though,” she told Foxglove urgently. “You could fly away from here. Mr Brand returned your hair to me; I do not think that he has any true interest in chasing after you.”

Foxglove pushed herself slowly upright. Clarimonde was reminded then just how much taller the faerie was, as she looked down at her in the parasol’s trembling moonlight.

“But I could not possibly bring help before tomorrow,” the faerie said slowly.

Clarimonde nodded minutely, with a knot in her throat. She reached out gently to take Foxglove’s hands in hers, cupping them around the pocket watch. She looked up at the faerie.

“You have done enough for me, Miss Fox,” she said softly. “You do not deserve to fall into Tertia’s hands for a second time. And I… I would like, more than anything, for you to have the chance to finally find your name.” She forced a tremulous smile. “I would like to give you my time, if you will have it.”

Foxglove stared down at the pocket watch. Clarimonde found that she could not read the expression on the faerie’s face at all, behind the burns and the drying blood. “You would not be abandoning me,” Clarimonde emphasised quietly. “I am asking you to leave. As… as a favour to me.”

Foxglove winced. “Oh,” she said. She heaved a heavy, mournful sigh. “That was… very well done, Miss Betony. I am a coward, of course—and that should be the end of it.” The faerie pressed the pocket watch gingerly back into her hands. “But I fear that I cannot accept your favour. I am here with you, regardless of the outcome. That is my choice, you see; it is what I wish to do with myself.”

She offered Clarimonde another wry, painful smile. “Besides which… I have decided that when this is over, I should like to show you my realm—small and underwhelming though it might be. I think…” Her eyes unfocussed, as though fixing upon some faraway point. “I think that you would like it very much. It is kinder and gentler than the rest of Faerie. The foxgloves are always in full bloom, on the very edge of summer.”

Clarimonde had never thought before that she would enjoy visiting any part of Faerie. But there was a soft reverence in Foxglove’s eyes and a wistful tone in her voice that made her long for that tiny clearing in a way that terribly surprised her.

There was a vulnerability too in the way that Foxglove spoke the words—as though some part of her yet expected a scornful reply.

“I would like that,” Clarimonde whispered. “Very much.”

Foxglove cleared her throat and looked away—but not before Clarimonde saw the tiny, self-conscious smile on her lips.

“Then… we must defeat the Leanansidhe,” the faerie observed, a bit more forcefully. “I do not think it is impossible. Tertia fears you; I saw it on her face when you refused her. I do not know why it is that she fears you—but she feels it, all the same.”

Clarimonde had not noticed any such thing—but then, she trusted Foxglove’s judgement on the matter far more than she trusted her own. She thought back, long and hard… and hesitated. “I have a theory,” she admitted. “But it will sound arrogant.”

Foxglove raised an eyebrow. “Now is hardly the time for humility,” she replied.

Clarimonde pulled her hands into her lap and pressed her lips together. “I told Hollowvale my name,” she said. “It tried to move me, as everyone always does—but it did not succeed. Since then, I think that Hollowvale has been interested in me. It has listened to me, here and there. In fact… I think that it trapped your old name in order to please me, when I called her terribly boring.”

A complicated flicker of emotion crossed Foxglove’s face at this revelation. Clarimonde did not have the skill to parse it all—but she knew that there was some amount of pain, and realisation, and then… a sad but fond acceptance.

The faerie took Clarimonde’s hand again and leaned their foreheads together, with an air of reassurance. “Of course Hollowvale would find you interesting,” Foxglove murmured. “You are confident and powerful, and everything that it desires in a lady. It has been content enough with Tertia until now, but… it was gifted to her, after all. And there are times, Miss Betony, when her confidence withers next to yours.”

Foxglove was very warm and very close now—and while that had been the case before, Clarimonde realised, she had never felt so close to the faerie before. Foxglove’s aching sincerity struck past what few remaining safeguards Clarimonde had left, kindling a deep and inexplicable longing in her chest.

“I think,” Foxglove said softly, “that you would make an excellent Lady Hollowvale.”

“I do not want Hollowvale,” Clarimonde whispered. “I do not want to be the person who takes it from you.”

Foxglove pressed a fingertip beneath Clarimonde’s chin and lifted her gaze. The faerie’s lovely face had been so terribly ruined; but Clarimonde could see only the cost that she had willingly paid, and the courage that it signified. In that light, Lady Foxglove was more breathtakingly beautiful than ever before.

“I am free of Hollowvale,” Foxglove said evenly. “I no longer require its good opinion. Tell me instead that I have yours—and it will be the only opinion that matters.”

Clarimonde’s breath hitched faintly. “You have… my very highest opinion,” she promised thickly.

Foxglove leaned closer, until her tangled hair tickled against Clarimonde’s cheek. Their lips brushed gently—and for a moment, everything was soft moonlight and sweet blue violets.

The kiss conveyed a hundred irrepressible things that could not properly be spoken. It was a promise that she was valued—that she mattered terribly to just one other person. It was heated, but strangely careful; Foxglove tangled fingers tenderly in her hair, as though wary of her possible fragility. Had Clarimonde not been so blissfully distracted, she might have found the idea confounding, in light of the faerie’s own hideous injuries.

Foxglove smiled against her lips. “You should wear trousers more often, Miss Betony,” she whispered. “I think they suit you very well.”

Heat surged into Clarimonde’s face, along with a mixture of embarrassment and delight. “I hadn’t intended to make a habit of it,” she mumbled. But Foxglove’s lips pressed against hers again as she spoke, and she thought that perhaps she could see herself wearing them again.