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Lord Foxglove frowned distantly. “Oh no,” he said. “Secundus is something far darker than a faerie. I do not know the term that you might use—but we have always called his kind the fomóraiġ. And he is royalty among them.”

Clarimonde stiffened. “Winnie mentioned that word before in her letters,” she said. “It has something to do with Witchwood Manor.”

Lord Foxglove kept his icy gaze ahead of them. The slight smile on his face was far too pleasant; Clarimonde could not tell whether it was hiding fear or pain or fury. “Secundus is the creature who trapped me at Witchwood Manor, along with many other faeries,” he informed her. “Miss Winifred released us from his curse—which is how I stand before you now.”

Clarimonde’s lips parted with understanding. “Then you are here because you owe her for your freedom,” she said. “You are paying off that debt.”

Lord Foxglove shrugged eloquently, as though to agree with her. But Clarimonde noted instantly that he had not actually answered the question.

“You are… not paying off that debt,” she corrected herself. “But you would like for me to believe that you are.”

The faerie tensed subtly against her hand—and Clarimonde knew that she had guessed correctly. As they reached the station’s entrance, she pulled her hand away from him in order to cross her arms, watching him expectantly.

After a very long silence, the faerie sighed.

“I know you not at all, Miss Betony,” he told her bluntly. “I have no reason to believe that you are any friend of mine. I do not owe you the entire truth about… any of this, really. Nor will I give it to you freely.”

Clarimonde narrowed her eyes at him. “I don’t know you very well, either,” she replied. “Yet I am forced to trust you, either way.”

Lord Foxglove chuckled to himself. “Life is terribly unfair, isn’t it?” he said. “Now then—are we taking the train to Wellington, or no?”

Clarimonde stifled a sound of deep frustration. There was no point in arguing the matter with him, though; Lord Foxglove held almost all of the cards in this particular situation.

“Answer me just one question, then, directly,” Clarimonde said, “and you may evade the rest as you see fit. Have you promised to protect me until I have safely reached Witchwood Manor?”

Lord Foxglove considered this question visibly, picking it apart in his head. Finally, he said: “I have made that promise, yes.”

Clarimonde nodded slowly. There are clearly exceptions to that promise, she thought. But it is helpful enough that I will keep him with me. I need not trust him implicitly.

“Then yes,” she said. “We are still taking the train to Wellington. But…” A sheepish expression crossed her face. “I don’t suppose that you could turn into something small, and travel in my pocket?”

Lord Foxglove raised his eyebrows incredulously. “I have already carried you on my back, like some tawdry faerie servant,” he said. “If anyone ever hears of that, I will not live it down. I am a lord of Faerie. Why precisely should I demean myself further?”

Clarimonde winced. “Well… I don’t have very much money with me,” she admitted. “I was only expecting to need enough to pay for my own train ticket, if I had to flee London. I could buy two tickets, but I would be worried about having enough money left to hire a carriage, once we reach Wellington.”

A deeply pained expression came over Foxglove’s features, tugging at his brow. Silence fell between them, as outrage warred with practicality in his posture.

“I swear that I will never tell a soul,” Clarimonde assured him hastily. “I will mention neither the ride here, nor the means of your train travel. It is the very least that I can do.”

Lord Foxglove fought with himself for several more seconds. His long fingers slipped up to fiddle with his neck cloth, with obvious agitation. Finally, however, he shook his head. “Not a single soul,” he warned her. “I will make a misery of your existence if you do—you know that I can.”

Clarimonde nodded with mute relief.

She blinked—and then, the faerie that had been standing next to her was gone. In his place was a tiny white mouse, sitting regally on its haunches. Somehow, the little faerie creature managed to maintain a stately, patronising air, even as Clarimonde reached down to take it into her hands.

Foxglove’s tiny pink nose twitched with irritation. Briefly, she thought that he might bite her—but he refrained, thankfully, and she slipped him very delicately into the pocket of her chequered cotton skirt.

Though Clarimonde knew perfectly well how to get to Euston station, she had never actually entered it before. As she walked inside, she was struck with a sort of surprised awe which she normally reserved for grand churches. The Great Hall was nearly as tall and broad as a cathedral, in fact, with the same echoing vastness. Several columns fenced in the space, reaching up towards huge windows. Despite the clear morning sunlight that streamed inside, gaslamps littered the interior, casting cheerful illumination across the seating there. An overlarge statue of a sober-looking gentleman stood just before a set of diamond stairs near the back, looking over the place as though it were his personal kingdom.

Though there were several passengers waiting in the Hall, the place was surprisingly quiet. Perhaps, Clarimonde thought, the church-like atmosphere had convinced those present that speaking too loudly would offend the mighty statue at the back of the room. She found herself particularly conscious of the clip that her walking boots made against the floor as she headed for the booking hall to her left.

“One passenger to Wellington, second class,” she mumbled at the window there. Her voice came out unusually hushed.

“One passenger to Wellington, second class,” repeated the man behind the wicket. “That will be sixteen shillings, please.”

Clarimonde rummaged for the coins in her valise, biting back a grimace. The cost was manageable—but it was far more than she normally preferred to spend. You’re fleeing the city, she reminded herself, not buying yourself a holiday.

She snatched up her paper ticket and followed the man’s directions to the departure platform. Thankfully, the ten o’ clock train was already present and patiently waiting to leave; sitting too long in that large, open hall would have unnerved her terribly.