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“Tell me what you need,” Tertia whispered. Her warm breath tickled across Clarimonde’s lips as she spoke. “I will have it for you in a heartbeat.”

Clarimonde’s heart quickened in her chest. There was a faint scent of coppery blood in the air around Tertia, but it hardly seemed to matter—the suggestion of mortality only made the moment feel sweeter and more compelling.

The fact that Clarimonde intended to betray the Leanansidhe did not signify. Some part of her still desperately wanted to please the creature before her.

“I will build the scent around rosemary, to begin,” Clarimonde mumbled distantly. “For memory and acuity.”

Tertia’s blood red lips curved faintly downwards. “That is not a terribly… feminine scent,” she observed. “I thought that you might use a flower.”

Clarimonde cleared her throat faintly. “Floral perfumes are commonplace,” she said. “You should have something more unique. Rosemary has a heated spirit. It commands attention, as you do.”

Tertia pondered this with all due gravity. Though she did not seem entirely convinced, she inclined her head. “You are the expert,” she murmured. “Well then. I will find you rosemary. What else?”

“Wormwood,” Clarimonde said. “Distilled, with wine and sugar.”

This time, Tertia laughed with soft delight. “Absinthe?” she asked. “How daring. Yes… I like that very much.”

The dark red of Tertia’s lips was… very inviting. She had turned her head up towards Clarimonde now, as though making an unspoken offer.

I could kiss her now, Clarimonde realised. Tertia would not protest. In fact, she would… enjoy it. They would both terribly enjoy themselves.

And why shouldn’t she kiss the Leanansidhe? They both knew that this was a transactional relationship. No love or friendship had ever been implied on either side. For just a moment, Clarimonde could know what it was like to have something truly beautiful all to herself.

Her protective perfume burned upon her skin, flaring with painful warning.

She will take something from you in return for that, whispered a voice at the back of Clarimonde’s mind. Just like the opium did.

Did that matter? Surely, whatever Tertia took from her would be something she was willing to trade for the experience. Foxglove was not here to stop her; he would never need to know. It could be a secret that Clarimonde kept to herself for the rest of her days.

It will not stop there, Clarimonde thought drearily.

The idea was intrusive, and painfully sensible. Clarimonde had seen the grisly marks upon Mr Bligh’s spirit. He had suffered terribly before he died, she knew—but every inch of him had yearned to crawl back to his killer, to let her brutalise him yet again.

The Leanansidhe did not want Clarimonde; that was the ugly truth. She wanted to possess her—to have her as a momentary toy which could be casually discarded. She would take what she wanted, and then leave the rest to rot.

Clarimonde drew in a shuddering breath. Very slowly, she peeled herself back from Tertia. “I have told you two ingredients,” she realised aloud. Her voice was hoarse upon the words. “You would take my power for yourself and make the perfume on your own. Now you are being very clever—but there are other ingredients, and I will not tell you what they are.”

Tertia let out a short, soft sigh of disappointment. “You are truly set upon this marriage then?” she asked. “I have thought on it, you know, and I cannot understand why. Indefinite things become dull and grey, dear Clarimonde—trust me, for I know that well.” She ran one long, pale finger down Clarimonde’s cheek. “I could give you weeks of dazzling colour… and then an end, before it all becomes too dreary.”

Clarimonde stiffened and pushed herself up from the chaise. “We made a bargain,” she said coldly. “Are you attempting to undo it?”

Tertia waved away the idea with one graceful hand. “Of course not,” she soothed. “I cannot a break a bargain, after all. I am only looking after your best interests. I wish that you would listen to me… but I cannot force you to see reason.”

Clarimonde clenched her jaw. “I will procure my own ingredients,” she said tightly. “If I accept your help, then you might argue that you performed part of the task yourself. Our bargain stands.”

Tertia leaned back upon the chaise, with a look of crushing disappointment on her lovely features. “As you wish,” she said. The words were bitter, and seemingly pried from her throat.

Clarimonde turned away, and stormed from the boudoir.

Miss Molinari had taken to a very serious discussion with a raven.

Clarimonde found her in the gallery upstairs, passing observations back and forth with a snowy bird that came up to her waist.

“The work conveys a sentiment,” Miss Molinari said, as she considered the painting in front of her—the depiction of Tertia in paradise with the late Prince Albert. “It is not literal, of course. But I think the spirit of it to be accurate. I have seen Lady Hollowvale in such an aspect before; she can be terribly comforting.”

The raven shuffled and scoffed. “The painting is neither literally nor metaphorically accurate,” it protested. “How comforting was Lady Hollowvale while Mr Bligh lay dying in his bed?”

Miss Molinari flushed self-consciously. “Well, that is… she is terribly distraught. You heard her only just this morning⁠—”