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Foxglove’s voice took on a soft smile. “It found you worthy,” he said. “And so, I asked the harp to let me play it in order to save you. It can be reasoned with, it seems.”

Clarimonde thought on this quietly, and with great effort. It was difficult to work her way through the veil of pain that the datura had left behind… but slowly, she developed a suspicion. “No,” she mumbled. “No, I don’t think that’s quite right.”

Foxglove’s fingers paused, partway through her hair.

“No faerie now among your court can play this harp,” Clarimonde quoted. “For none of you have the means. Am I remembering the story properly?”

“You have perfectly remembered it,” Foxglove said. “And… ah! How devious! I have begun to see the shape of things.”

“There was never any reason that a faerie could not play that harp,” Clarimonde said, with growing certainty. “The Daghda’s court did not have a faerie who could… but only because they were tyrants trying to protect themselves. I do not even think that harp requires a magician, Mr Fox—it only requires that you play it for the benefit of someone else, and not yourself.”

“What a wonderfully deceptive creature Lugh must have been!” Foxglove said with a sigh. “Oh! I would have loved to meet him!” He laughed softly. “He tricked the Daghda, even after his own death. He convinced us to give magic to humanity. Now look at you! So fearful that even Balor’s children find you terrifying.”

“I do not feel very terrifying at the moment,” Clarimonde said wryly. “But I must rise, regardless. We have… unfinished business.” She hesitated, suddenly self-conscious. “I would like for you to play the harp for someone else, if… if that is all right with you.”

Foxglove threaded his fingers through hers. “I will, of course,” he promised her, “as long as the harp will suffer me again.”

“Ah, this insufferable boor,” Foxglove lamented. He shook his head at the bier where Elias slept. “I had nearly forgotten that he was here at all.”

Clarimonde shot the faerie a withering expression. “Elias has many admirable qualities,” she said. She knew, even as she said it, that she was papering over several less desirable qualities—but Clarimonde was nothing if not loyal. “He taught me most of what I know.”

Foxglove snorted. “One can tell,” he said. “You have his manners.” Nevertheless, he studied the man on the bier, circling him slowly. “That said… I fear there is a problem. He is not sleeping, Miss Betony—he is gone.”

Clarimonde stiffened. “He is not,” she said. “He is still breathing!”

Foxglove blinked at her. “Oh,” he said. “I did not mean that he is dead. No—he is missing his soul. It has departed. Or… more likely, it has been taken.”

Clarimonde stared at him with a slow, sinking feeling. “Taken,” she repeated quietly. “Of course. Why would the new Lord Sorcier risk his predecessor’s return?”

Foxglove inclined his head. “Secundus is clever,” he said. “Why would he kill someone so dangerous? His soul might go to Longshadow then, where he has allies waiting. Better to trap his spirit entirely, and put it somewhere safe.”

Clarimonde pressed her lips together. Her head was still in agony—but her fury had returned, both keener and more cutting than ever before.

The air around her had grown cold again. This time, only Foxglove shivered, rubbing at his arms.

“Hollowvale preserves him,” Clarimonde said. She knew somehow that it was true; she felt it, tickling at the back of her mind. “Without his soul, his body should have perished. But Hollowvale clings to him, the same way that it held onto your old name.”

Foxglove inclined his head. “I agree,” he said. “That sounds like something it would do. But, ah… Miss Betony…”

Clarimonde glanced over at him inquisitively.

The faerie gestured at his own icy blue eyes—and then, for some reason, at hers. “I could not quite tell, in the candlelight. But your eyes are rather more blue than they were before.”

Clarimonde frowned. She searched momentarily for a mirror—but of course, there were no mirrors in the other house.

The chill around her had deepened, though… and presently, she became aware that the strange impulses at the back of her mind were alive. They were so quiet and so patient that they were easily overlooked; but as she focussed on them more intently, she became aware that they were entirely alien, and connected to something much… much larger.

Hollowvale was not merely listening anymore. In the absence of its former lady, it had seemingly decided to settle upon Clarimonde’s shoulders.

“Oh,” Clarimonde mumbled uneasily. “Is this… what faerie lordship is? I do not feel much different at all.”

“It must be different for everyone,” Foxglove said. “I have always felt my lordships very keenly. But I believe we have established that you are not very easily changed, Miss Betony. Perhaps, after many years, it will feel different.”

Clarimonde grimaced. “I do not intend to hold this realm for many years,” she informed him. “I will look after it, I suppose, until its proper lady returns. But an eternity in Faerie? Goodness, no. We must rescue the Hollow Lady as soon as possible, and wake her husband too.”

A fresh new thought occurred her to then, and she paused. “And in pursuit of that…” Clarimonde said slowly, “I must now speak with someone else entirely.”

Mr Brand was waiting in the nave, when Clarimonde descended the stairs. His manner was distraught; it was clear that he’d been pacing.