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“W-why should Hollowvale obey you?” Clarimonde added. Her teeth chattered now, despite her best efforts. “You are an empty husk. You are an ugly, passive creature. You m-make nothing. You are nothing. You are s-someone else’s painting, because you cannot paint. You are s-someone else’s poem⁠—”

The Leanansidhe let out a shrill, piercing scream. Clarimonde staggered, clutching at her ears. She could not shut away the sound; it continued on, long past the point when a normal person’s lungs might have betrayed them. And when the first scream stopped, there was another, and another.

“You are⁠—”

Every time Clarimonde tried to speak again, the screams cut her off, drowning her words in shrieking notes of desperate denial. Tertia would not hear the truth—not any longer.

But frost was still encroaching, and Clarimonde knew that it would overtake her long before those screams died out.

In a way, she consoled herself, she had won; Tertia would never truly forget what the oil of datura had shown her. The truth would torment her forever, long after Clarimonde had died. Surely, Tertia would have preferred any punishment but this one; surely, she would have rather been frozen within ice.

But Clarimonde and Tertia had both forgotten Foxglove.

A long, sweet note sang upon the air. It was not loud—but somehow, it was stronger than those piercing screams. There was such a devastating beauty to that single note that Tertia’s strength abruptly failed. Her screams died, and she fell to her knees, staring back at the harp with utter hopelessness in her dark red eyes.

Lord Foxglove had calmly settled himself in the chair next to the Daghda’s harp and bent himself to play it. His long, elegant fingers now plucked another note which rang even more strongly, lingering atop the first. The skill that Clarimonde so badly lacked was evident in the way that he moved—surely, she realised, he had several hundred years of practice.

And oh, how beautiful he was! His face was still bloodied and ruined, but his hair was long and lovely, and glimmering with moonlight. Several of those gleaming strands now stretched across the harp, where once there had been nothing.

The song that he played was soft, and infinitely kind. It was a field of flowers, whispering in the breeze. It was safety and shelter; it was the offer of gentle repose. It was the promise of eternal summer, at the very edge of sleep.

How had he done it? Clarimonde did not know. She did not care. She was so endlessly in love with the vision that he painted—the glimpse of foxgloves, gently beckoning. They had always been there, somewhere deep inside of him; and finally, he had allowed them to blossom.

Tertia stared at the faerie, now openly weeping with loathing, and jealousy, and awe. “It’s so beautiful,” the Leanansidhe whispered. Hatred dripped from every word. “Why is it so beautiful?”

Clarimonde closed her eyes and smiled, as that comforting safety wrapped her up within it and carried her off to sleep.

CHAPTER 23

“I am not dying, Clarimonde. I will still be there thinking of you, somewhere off in Faerie.”

LORD ELIAS WILDER TO MISS CLARIMONDE BETONY, AGE 23

Clarimonde dreamed of foxgloves, at the very edge of the world.

In her dream, she was very small—so tiny that the petals gave her shade. She had been afraid before, and weary, but there was nothing here to harm her anymore.

I could stay here, she thought distantly. That would be lovely, wouldn’t it?

Well. She did have things to do; she knew that much. But she was certain, somehow, that the flowers would still be here, no matter where she went. And always, they would welcome her back again.

“I didn’t mean to put you to sleep,” Foxglove said. His voice was rich with amusement. “I hope that you had pleasant dreams, regardless.”

Clarimonde blinked slowly awake.

“Oh,” she moaned immediately. Somehow, she had ended up in bed—though it was not one made of gold, thank goodness. There was a single candle on the nearby table though, and the hint of light sent stabbing pains into her head. Her nausea stirred again.

“Ah,” Foxglove said with a sigh, from a chair just beside the bed. “So that’s what happens when you use too much datura.” He stroked his fingers gently through her hair. “Should I anoint you with blue violet and banish your affliction?”

“No,” Clarimonde croaked desperately. “No more magic. I have had enough magic to last the next few years, at least.” She leaned into the comfort of his fingers though, with the observation that his warmth pushed back the headache just a little bit. “I notice that we are not dead.”

“We are not,” Foxglove agreed. He, too, seemed remarkably surprised. “The Leanansidhe will not wake up, I think. The harp has overcome her, once again.”

Clarimonde furrowed her brow. “You said… that you could not play it,” she mumbled. “You tried before, and failed.”

“Oh yes,” Foxglove said distractedly. “I did try, and I did fail. But as soon as you pointed out that the harp had a will of its own, I realised I could try again. It is rather like the hearse—I had to ask it nicely, and give it proper motivation.”

Clarimonde frowned. “I don’t quite understand,” she admitted.