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Tertia crossed the floor slowly, ignoring the empty seat at the head of the banquet table. Her reddish gaze remained fixed upon Clarimonde as she walked. Silence trailed in her wake, as the people at the table stared after her with abject longing.

Finally, the lady paused behind Clarimonde’s chair and laid one pale, ungloved hand upon its back. A long strand of black hair ghosted across Clarimonde’s cheek, and she realised belatedly that the Leanansidhe had left it undone.

Tertia still carried the scent of pomegranates with her. Underneath it, though, there was the sharp, unpleasant hint of copper blood.

“Clarimonde,” she said softly. The sound of her true name rang on the air—impossibly sweet, in a way that plucked at her soul. “You look much better rested. Have you eaten yet? Surely, there is something here you would enjoy?”

Clarimonde drew in a deep breath of her own perfume. The bitter orange brought back the memory of the ugly look in Tertia’s eyes as she had laughed at her, and reminded her of the bevvy of blasphemous paintings upstairs.

Clarimonde glanced back at the woman standing behind her chair. “It would be terribly impolite to eat what I have not been offered,” she replied evenly.

Tertia frowned down at her, now obviously perplexed. She spent a very long moment searching Clarimonde’s face.

I am not acting as the others do around her, Clarimonde realised. Nearby, Miss Molinari had entirely forgotten herself in order to stare at Tertia with a kind of adoring despair.

Clarimonde’s perfume had struggled at times to protect her from the Leanansidhe’s presence, it was true—but it was protecting her, all the same. And though Tertia was clearly powerful, that power had not given her any special ability to manipulate Clarimonde’s name. As with every other creature that had tried, Tertia’s attempts to tug at her name failed each and every time.

“Well,” the lady said finally. “It seems that I have been impolite in turn. That will not do at all. You are my most honoured guest; you are of course invited to eat from my table, at any time that you would like.”

It was far too easy, Clarimonde thought, to offer the Leanansidhe a genuine smile. “That is very gracious of you,” she said. “It does look delicious; you have clearly spared little expense.”

A pleased expression blossomed upon Tertia’s features at the carefully directed flattery. Clarimonde realised belatedly that she had deployed the words with strategy, rather than simply speaking what was truly on her mind. She was not certain whether or not to be proud of that.

“I am the most gracious host in England,” Tertia assured her. “Your room is very expensive as well. You must have noticed.”

Clarimonde’s smile froze on her face, as she struggled to contain her honest reaction. The polecat on her shoulder hid its eyes beneath her hair with a tiny groan, as she gathered up the strength to speak again.

“I did notice,” she managed.

To her great surprise, Tertia did not seem at all aware of the strain in her manner. The Leanansidhe beamed instead, as though she had been complimented further.

“I am very devout, as well,” Tertia added. “That is why the entire household comes with me to service every Sunday. In fact, I have never missed a single Sunday. Are you devout, Miss Betony?”

The more that Tertia spoke, Clarimonde discovered, the easier it was to ignore her overwhelming beauty. There was a quiet desperation lurking beneath the Leanansidhe’s exorbitant declarations that seemed reminiscent of a child in need of attention. It was pitiable, perhaps… but certainly, it was far from attractive.

“I go to church as often as I can,” Clarimonde replied, with more of her usual practicality. “But I cannot claim to be as dedicated as you are. I am sure that I have missed the occasional Sunday.”

Tertia smiled at the words, as though Clarimonde had admitted defeat. “We cannot all be perfect,” she said soothingly. “I am certain that you do your best.” She tilted her head then, and shifted her gaze to the polecat hiding behind Clarimonde’s hair. “Your faerie servant will come with us as well, of course,” she said.

Clarimonde stiffened slightly at the courteous demand.

“One does not bring animals into a church,” the polecat whispered quickly into her ear.

“One does not bring animals into a church,” Clarimonde repeated automatically.

It only occurred to her belatedly how awfully cruel the words might seem. In fact, though Foxglove had himself suggested them, she could not help a stab of guilt that they had come out of her mouth.

Tertia laughed. “Oh, silly me,” she said. “You are correct, of course. I would not want either animals or faeries in my church, if I were a great lord.” She straightened and removed her hand from the back of Clarimonde’s chair, shaking her head. “Well then. We shall leave the animal at home.”

CHAPTER 9

“I do not go to church. Everyone seems to think me a devil regardless, and I would hate to disabuse them of the notion. I am sorry to say that you cannot do the same, Miss Betony. Lower-class magicians are barely tolerated in England—but at least, in this day and age, those who go to Sunday service are not often burned at the stake.”

LORD ELIAS WILDER TO MISS CLARIMONDE BETONY, AGE 14

Though the sun had long since risen upon Whitby, the fog had yet to clear. In fact, Clarimonde suspected that the fog would never clear, if Hollowvale had its way. The cold wet mist clung to their small procession as they wound their way through uneven rows of gravestones to St Mary’s Church.

It was a very short walk between Whitby Abbey and the church. Nevertheless, Clarimonde watched the surrounding fog with great wariness. More than once, a dark, indistinct shape passed above them in the haze, blotting out the distant sun… but it seemed too wary of the Leanansidhe’s intoxicating power to approach much closer, and it disappeared again each time.