Page 31

Either way, she could not possibly afford to stare at it too long.

A large golden mirror stood out among the intricate floral wallpaper on one wall; currently, it reflected Tertia, who had poured herself across a chaise at the centre of the room, surrounded by a curious assortment of cages inhabited by still and silent birds.

The Leanansidhe wore a yawning white poet’s shirt, a tight set of knee-length breeches, and a satisfied smile. Her cheeks were flushed; her lips seemed somehow deeper crimson than before. Unlike Miss Molinari, she was perfectly present and keenly aware; her pleasure was that of a cat that had recently hunted.

The sight reminded Clarimonde uncomfortably of Lady Foxglove in her reformist clothing. There was something more intentionally provocative about the way that Tertia wore men’s clothing, though—a sense that it was meant to be discarded in short order, to be displayed upon the floor and not upon her person. The possibility elicited a hot, conflicted discomfort within Clarimonde… but this, at least, was more acceptable than the awful sickness she had felt while witnessing Miss Molinari’s drugged, uncomprehending behaviour.

“And have you now rested sufficiently, that you might finally rejoin the civilised world?” Tertia asked Clarimonde. Despite her obvious satisfaction, there was a tangible petulance to the words.

Clarimonde pressed her lips together, struggling to reclaim her confidence. Lord Foxglove had rehearsed this conversation with her ahead of time. Surely, she could summon up the will to repeat what he had told her.

“You seemed to prefer Miss Molinari’s company,” Clarimonde said finally.

The statement shifted something in Tertia’s posture. Gradually, she pushed herself up on the chaise, regarding Clarimonde with fresh curiosity. “Why, Clarimonde,” she drawled. “Are you, perhaps… feeling jealous?”

Clarimonde absorbed the question uncomfortably. Though she was loath to admit it, a tiny, irrational seed of jealousy had begun to burn at the back of her mind. As evidently unhealthy as Tertia’s good regard seemed to be, openly losing it to Miss Molinari had left her feeling more unwanted and inadequate than ever before.

“I offered you your heart’s desire,” Clarimonde told her shortly. “Miss Molinari offered you a poem.” Somehow, she managed to keep her eyes fixed upon Tertia’s face, and not upon the lovely pale skin peeking out from the poet’s shirt.

The hint of irritation in Tertia’s manner evaporated abruptly, replaced with knowing condescension. She laughed softly, and gestured invitingly towards the place beside her on the chaise.

A thrum of warning flickered through Clarimonde’s body—along with a heady and expectant thrill. The two feelings seemed inseparable, where Tertia was concerned.

Clarimonde settled herself onto the edge of the chaise. A fresh, feverish warmth radiated from Tertia as she pressed herself into Clarimonde’s side and leaned her head gently upon her shoulder. The sharp scent of blood that Tertia carried with her had intensified—and though it should have been utterly repellant, it was instead oddly intoxicating.

“I really must apologise,” Tertia told her soothingly. “It is my sense of obligation, you know. I have always had such a special relationship with artists, Clarimonde. They come to me, no matter where I go, and I have long since resigned myself to giving them what they require.”

Tertia stroked idly at Clarimonde’s arm and she tensed in reply, with an embarrassing hunger. But the perfume on Clarimonde’s skin burned with warning, and she forced herself to breathe steadily.

“And… what is it that these artists require from you?” Clarimonde asked. Though she tried to keep her voice level, the question came out strained.

Tertia turned her head, glancing up at Clarimonde through long, lovely lashes. “Inspiration,” she said softly. “And… oh, approval. They are all so hungry for approval. What they want is to be famous—to have the entire world’s approval—but since they cannot have that, they find in me a kind of solace. Their needs are impossible… but I can be temporary medicine for their desperation.”

The observation made Clarimonde shiver. It was unnervingly insightful, for a woman who seemed so oblivious to her own foibles.

“Miss Molinari certainly seemed ecstatic when she left,” Clarimonde said slowly. “Though… perhaps not entirely herself.”

Tertia smiled serenely. “It is very difficult work, inspiring fragile artists,” she said. “In some ways, you might say their art is really mine. I coax them into brilliance; I must prompt them with the proper words. After all of that, of course, I take a price. Every artist leaves behind some piece of themselves, which I might then enjoy at my leisure.”

The Leanansidhe released Clarimonde’s arm in order to reach for the bird cage closest to the chaise. Delicately, she opened the door and stroked her finger along the feathers of the silent nightingale inside.

The bird came to life with an abrupt trill. A stilted melody trickled from its throat—far too intricate for normal birdsong. The tune was dark and whimsical, and full of manic energy. Something about it struck Clarimonde uncomfortably, however. The pattern was both too even and too contradictory; it did not seem to know what it was meant to be.

Tertia did not seem to notice the difference.

“Isn’t it lovely?” she asked with a sigh. “I took pieces from all of the best composers I have met and stitched them together, in order to make something better. I call it a song that never was.”

The explanation resolved some of the strange inconsistencies in the birdsong, as Clarimonde realised that the various tonal changes had not actually been crafted with intention; they were, instead, something made to sound like intention.

Tertia had turned an expectant look upon Clarimonde. Just what she was expecting, specifically, was a terrible mystery.

“Compliment the music!” hissed the dormouse in Clarimonde’s pèlerine.

Clarimonde suppressed a flinch. “I have never heard anything like it,” she said truthfully.

“Of course not,” Tertia agreed eagerly. “It is entirely unique. No one else could have made anything like it.” She rose from the chaise, drawing Clarimonde up after her and dragging her towards the painting on the easel. “And this? Isn’t it marvellous? I made excellent use of Mr Bligh’s artistic talents.”

Clarimonde stared at the canvas. From a distance, she had mistaken it for the same painting that Mr Bligh had finished on the night of her arrival—but now that she was closer, she saw that the background of the abbey was blurred and distorted, and Tertia’s figure was a bit too bright for her surroundings.