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This statement elicited a few knowing laughs. Tertia waved a hand at the reverend, as though to say: Oh, you.

“The lady who founded Whitby Abbey was known for many things,” he said, “but today, I speak of her dedication to the arts. Saint Hilda understood that it is our duty to glorify God through the gifts that He has given us. It was Saint Hilda who encouraged Cædmon the herder to refine his voice, to sing in praise of God.”

Reverend Shaw beamed up at Tertia, who had now offered him her full and undivided attention. Clarimonde’s embarrassment returned—this time, on behalf of the priest, who stood in full view of the church as he transparently exhorted the lovely creature in the gallery.

She could not bring herself to listen to the rest. Distantly, she remained aware of a lesson involving God’s presence in beautiful things, and truly, that was bad enough.

By the time the service finally ended, Tertia’s spirits had risen to ecstatic levels once again. Clarimonde’s mood dropped lower and lower, though, as she contemplated the approaching agony of her private sitting with Lady Hollowvale.

I should have realised, she thought despairingly. Tertia will spend the entire time speaking of her own holiness. She will expect me to agree with her, over and over again.

“Goodness, Miss Betony, you look ghastly,” Miss Molinari observed, as Clarimonde rose reluctantly to her feet. “Are you still feeling weary from your journey? You must not push yourself too hard; you might fall ill, just like poor Mr Bligh!”

Clarimonde couldn’t quite hide her grimace as she trailed sluggishly after the other two women, towards the church’s exit. “I suppose I do feel slightly under the weather,” she said. It was better, she thought, to embrace the excuse that she had been offered, rather than admitting her sudden dread of spending time alone with Tertia.

Dimly, she became aware that Tertia had taken Miss Molinari’s arm instead of hers. Oh no, Clarimonde thought suddenly. I have already botched things, haven’t I? Her utter lack of enthusiasm was painfully apparent, she realised, next to Miss Molinari’s doting adoration.

“Miss Betony will rest, of course, when we’ve returned,” Tertia said dismissively. “But Miss Molinari—I have not forgotten your poetry! You must choose something to read for me this afternoon.”

Clarimonde barely suppressed the urge to press her face into her hands.

Only a few hours without Lord Foxglove whispering in her ear, and she had already lost the Leanansidhe’s good favour.

“Oh, do stop worrying,” a small white stoat admonished Clarimonde. “The situation is eminently salvageable.”

Clarimonde had discovered Foxglove’s current form curled up on her golden bed when she returned; now, he stretched and yawned, flicking his fluffy tail in annoyance while she paced.

“But what if Tertia revokes her hospitality?” Clarimonde asked anxiously.

“She cannot revoke her hospitality,” Lord Foxglove replied. Though his tail still twitched with agitation, his voice was soothing. “She promised you a series of tasks. You must fail one first, at least, before she throws you out.”

Clarimonde cringed. “Well that is easily solved, isn’t it?” she said. “All she will need to do is give me a truly impossible task as soon as possible.” She turned a hopeful gaze upon the stoat. “You had a few hours here alone. Have you found anything helpful yet?”

The stoat hopped down from the bed. “Not as much as I would like,” it admitted. “I have discovered that there is another stairwell that leads down into the Hollow House, rather than into the abbey; it is close to Tertia’s bedroom. The House will not allow my exploration, though. It knows that guests are not supposed to wander there.”

Clarimonde blinked. “The House… won’t allow?” she repeated.

By the time she had opened her eyes again, Lord Foxglove’s more familiar faerie form was standing beside her. His cool blue eyes had fixed upon her hair—admittedly quite troubled by the wind and the humidity—and she knew that his fingers were itching to put it right.

“The Hollow House is just another extension of Hollowvale itself,” Foxglove told her. “I thought that I could perhaps… persuade it to accommodate me. But Hollowvale is seemingly attached to Tertia and her desires.”

There was, to Clarimonde’s surprise, an open note of weariness in his voice. Normally, the faerie kept such perfect control of his expression that she could not parse his feelings—but presently, there was a terrible mixture of grief and sadness and confusion on his features which he seemed incapable of hiding.

“Oh,” she said softly. “I admit that I do not quite understand the situation. But Hollowvale was once… attached… to you instead, wasn’t it?”

Lord Foxglove stepped behind Clarimonde, reaching out abruptly for her hair. The movement hid his face from her—but not before she caught a hint of pinched unhappiness at the edges of his mouth.

“I do not understand what Hollowvale sees in her,” he mumbled. “Surely, it isn’t attracted to her beauty?”

Clarimonde carefully lowered her gaze as he unpicked her hair. The faerie had blessed her with so few moments of unguarded honesty, and she found that she did not wish to ruin this one.

“Regardless,” she told him, “it is certainly indicative that Hollowvale would choose Tertia, but not you. That strikes me as an unfortunate choice.”

“Perhaps it is simply because she is more powerful than I am,” Foxglove muttered. The words were openly despairing now.

“Perhaps that’s so,” Clarimonde agreed. “But that would not reflect very well upon Hollowvale’s taste in rulers, would it? Power is such a poor reason to prefer someone’s company.”

“It is,” Lord Foxglove said sourly. “It would be, wouldn’t it?” He reached for the brush on the dressing table—but even as he began pulling it through Clarimonde’s hair, he paused partway through the first stroke. “Are you… humouring me right now, Miss Betony?”