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Dryads folded back into the trees with swift alacrity. Satyrs and violet-skinned creatures and stranger things entirely vanished in between eye blinks.

In the space of only a single breath, Clarimonde found herself alone in the clearing with Lord Foxglove and the dread lord… but now, as the tall, gaunt man descended from his throne to advance on Clarimonde, Foxglove stepped back too, hovering just on the edge of flight.

“Shall I leave then, as well?” Lord Foxglove asked the other man carefully. “I believe that my duty has been discharged. I would not wish to listen in on any of your private affairs.”

Clarimonde clenched her jaw. On some level, Foxglove’s transparent attempt to abandon her was oddly relieving—once he disappeared, she could reclaim the concentration that she had so far devoted to calculating whether he was threatening or not. But the sheer swiftness of his cowardice still angered her in a way that she could not entirely hide.

The lord stepped down onto the forest floor, clearing the last step of that towering throne. As he came closer, the shadows lightened around him, and the woven branches of his crown melted away. The man that remained was still tall and imposing—but the air of dangerous majesty that had surrounded him was now less cloying, and the hint of long-suffering annoyance in his expression was more obvious.

“You will stay,” he commanded Foxglove, “until Winifred decides that your duty is complete. You were later than expected; she is out searching for you as we speak.”

The horrible knot of anxiety within Clarimonde loosened very slightly at that… though the sound of Winnie’s given name on the other man’s lips gave her fresh pause. It was far too familiar—especially for Winnie, who always insisted upon careful, frigid formality from the men with whom she interacted.

Clarimonde looked him over again now that the shadows were gone, taking in the blood red waistcoat that he wore, along with his long rat tail. “Mr Quincy?” she said, with surprised confusion. “Winnie mentioned you in her letters. She said that you were the butler here.”

Mr Quincy offered her a bitter smile. “Oh, I was,” he said. “I was many things, before. But now I am a lord, it seems, and I must play the part. You have my apologies for the pageantry involved in your arrival; had Winifred been here as planned, you would have had more warning.” His red eyes sharpened upon her. “You are Miss Betony, unless I miss my guess. Where is your other sister? She was meant to come here with you.”

The question sent a fresh stab of helpless grief through Clarimonde. But she was not overly familiar with Mr Quincy, beyond the fact that Winnie had considered that he might be useful—and so, she kept the anguish from her features, though her fingers reached up to close around the black braid still pinned into her hair. “Bellamira made a different choice,” she replied steadily. “She does not expect to join us. Do you believe that Winnie will be long?”

Mr Quincy did not have the chance to respond.

Instead, Clarimonde heard a sharp gasp—followed by the frantic crunching of leaves behind her. All at once, a strange transformation overtook Mr Quincy’s face, as a fearful gentleness crept into his wine-red eyes, softening the bitterness behind them.

Clarimonde had only halfway turned by the time Winnie threw her arms around her.

“Thank goodness, Clarimonde, I was so worried!” Her older sister’s voice was uncharacteristically shaky with relief as she pressed her forehead to Clarimonde’s shoulder. Winnie’s lovely white blonde hair caught in Clarimonde’s mouth, and she sputtered against it, trying to catch her breath.

Winnie was dressed in what she sometimes termed her ‘homely spinster’ gown—a severe, high-collared, green monstrosity that made her seem even colder than she really was. She had let her long hair down, though, which Clarimonde could not remember Winnie doing since they had been children together in the workhouses. There was, in fact, a fresh vulnerability about her that Clarimonde did not fully understand. Certainly, Winnie had never openly expressed such warm sentiments before unless they were safely alone with one another.

Clarimonde closed her arms around Winnie in turn, taking brief solace in her solidity. Whatever other awful things had happened, she thought, at least Winnie was alive and well, and wearing her hair without pins.

“I am here,” Clarimonde said quietly. “It was a near thing, I admit. I am very fortunate that you sent Lord Foxglove to assist me.“

Winnie pulled back to study Clarimonde, schooling her pretty face back into something more characteristically severe. “You were accosted?” she asked warily. “The Lord Sorcier was watching your shop, then.”

Clarimonde opened her mouth to speak—but she paused in order to glance between Mr Quincy and Lord Foxglove, the latter of whom had perched himself carelessly upon the bottom stair of that large throne. Foxglove had leaned his chin into one hand in a way that signalled long-suffering boredom… but Clarimonde knew that he was listening intently to the entire conversation.

Winnie straightened sharply. “You may speak freely before, ah… Mr Quincy,” she assured Clarimonde. For a moment, Clarimonde noted, Winnie had intended to call him by a different name—but she had stopped herself just in time, and chosen something formal instead. “And I expect that Lord Foxglove was present for much of what transpired, regardless.”

Winnie doesn’t fully trust Lord Foxglove, either, Clarimonde realised. That was its own sort of relief; at least her sister would treat Clarimonde’s uneasy instincts on the matter with seriousness.

“The Lord Sorcier sent a man named Mr Brand to investigate whether there was a lower-class magician present,” Clarimonde responded finally. “But he was not a man at all. He was⁠—”

“Mr Brand was a fomórach,” Lord Foxglove cut in mildly. His blue eyes rested heavily upon Mr Quincy as he spoke the words, though he did not raise his chin from his hand. “You would know him, I am certain—though surely by some different, older name. He is a creature from the line of Bres: a hunter by trade, who keeps a black hound at his side.”

Mr Quincy stiffened; all of the softness that had stolen into his expression at Winnie’s appearance now fled at once. “I know him,” he confirmed. “He served my father. I am surprised that he would serve Secundus, too… but I suppose my brother has many means by which to compel obedience.”

Clarimonde tightened her hand on Winnie’s arm at the revelation. “You are one of the fomóraiġ as well?” she asked. She kept her tone as neutral as she could manage, though the idea had freshly unsettled her.

“I find myself at odds with my family,” Mr Quincy told her, by way of explanation. That bleak bitterness now crept back into his voice. “Secundus will tolerate some level of disagreement from me, I expect, so long as I keep to myself and do not cross his grandest aims. It will not shock him if I offer my protection to those magicians who are willing to serve me.”

Clarimonde felt the statement like a splash of cold water over her body. “Willing to serve you?” she repeated carefully. “Is that why I am here? Is that… why Winnie is here?”

Winnie’s manner had gone flat and composed—something much closer to her usual demeanour. “We will discuss that question soon enough,” she told Clarimonde evenly. “First, I wish to know why Bellamira is not here.” She turned to narrow her eyes at Lord Foxglove, now openly suspicious. “You took advantage of hospitality that was not yours. I arranged your forgiveness, on the sole condition that you bring my sisters safely here⁠—”

“Must we each pretend to have the high ground?” Lord Foxglove sighed heavily. “You tricked me into the new Lord Mourningwood’s debt, and took advantage of my foolishness in order to save your sisters. You were very clever, Miss Winifred, and it was well done—but technical debts will win you only technical assistance. Does it truly shock you that I am willing to risk so little on your behalf?”

Clarimonde raised her eyebrows at Winnie. The idea that her sister had tricked a faerie into compliance was hardly shocking to her—but in this case, it sounded as though Winnie had been even more ruthlessly efficient than usual.