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“Thank you,” she said quietly. “I wish you well, Lord Foxglove, in return.”

By the time she looked up, he was gone—but she was certain that he had heard her.

Clarimonde did not mean to fall asleep. But somehow, she found herself waking much later atop the bed, with heavy eyes and leaden limbs. At first, she wondered what had drawn her attention—but then, she heard two voices speaking quietly outside of her door.

“What sort of magic does Clarimonde do?” a young boy asked. There was a hint of self-importance to his tone—though it was currently tinted with wary respect, as well. “Could she teach it to me?”

“Clarimonde works with extracts and perfumes,” Winnie replied. “She is the most powerful magician I have ever met, except for the old Lord Sorcier. But I doubt very much that the two of you would get on, Longfell, and learning from a reluctant teacher is an art you’ve yet to master. You will have to content yourself with a lord of Faerie and your governess, for now.” Clarimonde’s older sister had never been overly fond of children—but there was a surprising warmth to her voice as she conversed with her companion.

The boy groaned. “Mr Quincy is a reluctant teacher,” he pointed out sourly.

“Yes indeed,” Winnie agreed. “And some day, you might finally learn something from each other.”

This pronouncement, it seemed, was the end of their conversation, as Winnie knocked firmly at Clarimonde’s door.

Clarimonde forced herself unsteadily from the bed, rubbing the haggard feeling from her eyes. She stumbled once in the darkness, before reaching the door and cracking it open upon the hallway.

Winnie stood outside with a single flickering candle. Its unsteady light danced over her form, revealing a manner of dress that was startlingly different from her sturdy green attire; at some point, she had changed instead into a luscious crimson tea gown, embroidered with delicate white lilies.

Beside her stood a young brown-haired boy, perhaps as old as twelve—though his painfully proper posture and slightly officious expression suggested that he thought of himself as being far older. His carefully tailored waistcoat and trousers were identical in all respects to those which Clarimonde’s wealthiest clients might have worn, except that all of his clothing was of smaller size. The entire effect was probably meant to be one of dignity… but somehow, she thought there was a tinge of desperation lurking just beneath it.

“Good evening, Miss Betony, and welcome to Witchwood Manor,” the boy said solemnly. “I am your host, Lord Longfell. I hope that you will let me know if you require anything while you are here.”

Winnie glanced down at the boy with fond amusement. “That was very well done,” she said. “But Clarimonde hasn’t the first idea how to respond to such formality. You may have to forgive us for speaking very plainly.”

Clarimonde snorted tiredly. “I fear the lord who helped to raise us knew relatively little of manners,” she informed the boy. “I suppose we did learn sorcery from him, which must suffice.”

The young Lord Longfell didn’t soften his posture—but his eyebrows rose, and a note of wryness now entered his voice as he glanced between Clarimonde and Winnie. “I can see the family resemblance already,” he said.

Clarimonde forced a smile that she did not fully feel. “We are both adopted,” she replied. “But yes.”

Winnie patted the boy’s shoulder with absent affection. “Mr Quincy is waiting for you,” she told him. “Go practice your patience, Longfell, and perhaps some magic may follow. I should speak further with Clarimonde in the meantime.”

Lord Longfell heaved a long-suffering sigh that sounded more his age. But he nodded at Clarimonde and took a step back from the doorway. “A pleasant evening, then, to both of you,” he said. “Since I am unlikely to have one.”

Winnie shot him a look of mild reproval—but a faint twitch of her lips undermined the expression entirely. “Quickly, Longfell,” she reminded him. “One does not keep a dread lord waiting.”

At last, a scowl and a faint slouch trickled into the young lord’s manner, as he turned away from them and headed into the darkness. As his light steps slowly faded, Winnie’s easy manner dissolved into the same sad weariness that Clarimonde had barely managed to hide.

“May I come in?” Winnie asked her quietly.

Clarimonde opened the door wider. As Winnie entered, her candle pressed back against the night, casting odd shadows across the walls that had not been there earlier that day. Perhaps it was only Clarimonde’s imagination—but she thought that she could see long, skeletal branches shivering in silhouette where no trees should have been.

Winnie sat down on the edge of the bed and set the candle on the bedside table. “This is not how I had hoped to meet again,” she said softly.

Clarimonde settled onto the bed just next to her sister, leaning into her side. Winnie was warm and familiar, at least, and there was a comfort in that—but they both knew there was someone missing who should have been beside them. “I had hoped for better, too,” Clarimonde admitted. “But here we are. What on earth have you done, Winnie? Did you swear yourself to Mr Quincy? Am I supposed to do the same?”

Winnie leaned her head on Clarimonde’s shoulder. “I am allied with Mr Quincy,” she said. “I am falling in love with him as well, I suppose. But that is nothing to do with the rest.” She hesitated noticeably. “I trust him. That is more valuable, I think, than love. He has important things which he hopes to protect from his brother and the rest of his family. He has been awake far longer than they have, and I do not think they realise how much he has changed in all that time. But he must play a certain role, if he is to avoid their scrutiny. So—I have sworn my fealty to him as his pet magician, since that is what they need to see.”

The admission that Winnie was falling in love was stranger than the rest, to Clarimonde’s mind. But she knew why Winnie did not wish to draw attention to that fact. Men had always identified something intangible about Winnie—a hint that she had once been victimised, and might be easy prey again. No amount of cold behaviour or painfully correct politeness on Winnie’s part had ever managed to erase that invisible mark from her person. The idea that she had found someone whom she might dare to love was obviously fragile, and part of her was surely fearful that speaking it aloud might shipwreck her good fortune.

Clarimonde wound an arm around her sister’s waist. “Do you intend for me to do the same?” she asked. “Are we to stay here and watch, while the new Lord Sorcier does as he pleases?”

“No,” said Winnie. The word was quiet, but vehement. “No, not at all. Mr Quincy and I have been gathering information—he with his family, and me with my cards. We have a plan, but it…” Her voice faltered. “I had meant to ask for Bellamira’s help. It will go hard without her, now.”

Clarimonde stiffened. “Tell me,” she demanded. “Surely, there is something I can do in her place?”

Winnie straightened and reached up to rub at her face. “There is a harp,” she said, “that once belonged to an ancient faerie called the Daghda. Played correctly, it brings joy, or sorrow, or slumber upon all of those who hear it. Mr Quincy tells me that this harp is what the faeries used to put the fomóraiġ to sleep. It could be used again.”