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Clarimonde couldn’t help a bit of surprise at the offer. She had, she realised, been expecting a far more aloof and professional attitude from Mother Barclay’s establishment. “Tea would be lovely,” she replied.

Miss Molinari settled herself gingerly into one of the recently vacated chairs, now looking even more self-conscious of her borrowed clothing. If Mother Barclay had any comment on the oddity, however, she kept it firmly to herself as she focussed on boiling more water for the tea.

“Are you a nurse, Miss Betony?” she asked cheerfully.

Clarimonde leaned on the back of a chair as she watched Mother Barclay putter about the stove. “Not… precisely,” she replied. “I am an herbalist. I have dabbled before in tinctures—though mostly, I work with perfumes.”

“You know the nature of Miss Molinari’s malady, of course,” Mother Barclay said. “You have somehow protected yourself against it.”

Since stepping through the door, a distant suspicion had begun to grow in Clarimonde’s mind. Now, it blossomed into full recognition. “You’re a magician!” she blurted out. “My God. You’ve been one all along?”

Mother Barclay offered her a disapproving tut. “Commoners cannot be magicians,” she admonished Clarimonde. “That would be illegal. Call me a wise woman, please.”

Clarimonde flushed at the faux pas. More than anyone else, she ought to have known how dangerous it was to admit to magic. “My apologies,” she said. “That is a very different matter, of course.”

“Of course,” Mother Barclay echoed approvingly. She poured three cups of tea and sat herself down at the table again. “I could recommend a treatment for Miss Molinari. I am surprised that she has come here willingly, though.” She turned her attention to Miss Molinari, who had now sunk down so low in her chair that her chin barely seemed to clear the edge of the table. “And how are you doing, dear?” Mother Barclay asked her, with a bit of warm concern. “I presume that you have caught Mr Bligh’s malady.”

Miss Molinari stared glumly at her cup of tea. “I feel… as though I have been dreaming,” she mumbled. “I am yet only half awake. I do not know if I would like to be awake.” Very slowly, she picked up her teacup and took a warming sip from it.

Mother Barclay nodded sympathetically. “We are all half-asleep these days,” she said. “That is the nature of Whitby’s invasion. But my home belongs to me, and the honeysuckle at the door keeps that cruel bit of whimsy at bay.”

Miss Molinari was silent for a long moment. Finally, she said: “You both must think me very foolish.” There was a brief thread of awareness in her voice—and Clarimonde realised that the tea on the table smelled sharply of mint. An herb for clarity of thought, she remembered.

“I think that you are desperate,” Mother Barclay corrected her gently. “Some of the artists here are chasing arrogant, entitled dreams… but not you, Miss Molinari. You were injured before you ever arrived. That is why more injury does not signify to you. Whatever you are running from… was it worse than Whitby Abbey?”

Miss Molinari did not answer. She did not need to answer; her stern features had suddenly crumpled into abject misery. Tears threatened at the corners of her eyes.

“There, there,” Mother Barclay soothed her. “I can still get out the gin if you like.”

Miss Molinari choked on a surprised laugh. She reached up to wipe at her eyes with one shaking hand. “I cannot go home,” she admitted. “Even if my mother would allow me to return… it would smother me. At least here, I am dying as myself.”

Mother Barclay sighed. “I do try not to meddle in other people’s business—” she started. She paused, with a frown at her cup. “Oh, well… that is an outright lie. I love to meddle. I should simply admit it.” She topped off Miss Molinari’s tea, pointedly encouraging her to drink more of it. “What I was going to say is that someone ought to box your mother’s ears. My daughter is awfully fond of Sappho too, if you understand my meaning. There is nothing in the least bit wrong with that. I love her all the same, and she is always welcome home.”

“Oh,” Clarimonde said. Suddenly, she felt very foolish indeed. It had been patently obvious to her, of course, that Miss Molinari was infatuated with Lady Hollowvale in every sense of the word. But given that one of Clarimonde’s older adoptive sisters had run off with a faerie woman, the subject of women taking up relationships with women had never been particularly taboo in her family.

Miss Molinari offered Clarimonde a bitter smile. “I am so envious of you, Miss Betony,” she said. “You have come to Whitby in order to court Lady Hollowvale; you do not bother to hide it. Even here, with the fresh taste of freedom, I cannot bring myself to speak so openly.”

“Well, I…” Clarimonde flushed. “It is a very different matter for me, given that I…” I am lying about my intentions, she thought. But was that entirely the case?

Some part of her still burned to feel Tertia’s lips upon hers. And Lady Foxglove’s sly smile had continued to plague her thoughts—especially with Miss Molinari now gallivanting about in her borrowed shirt and trousers.

“My business with Lady Hollowvale is transactional,” Clarimonde finished finally. “What I have proposed to her is more of a… partnership. But I must admit that I have never been particular in my affections, either way.”

Even the male Lord Foxglove had begun to fluster her now, despite her very best efforts. The fact that she seemed to be attracted to a deceitful faerie still struck her as far more troublesome than the fact that the faerie in question was sometimes shaped like a woman.

Mother Barclay sized up Clarimonde from across the table. “Partnerships with spirits such as these do not often end well,” she said softly. “Surely, you must know that… or else you would not be so carefully protected.”

Clarimonde cleared her throat uncomfortably. “The matter is already settled,” she said, in an attempt to sidestep the subject. “I have made my bargain, and it cannot be undone. But I have promised to treat Miss Molinari, and now she is here. My instinct is that a balsam salve would be best—but balsam can be difficult to find in this region.”

Mother Barclay tapped the side of her nose. “It’s not impossible to grow here,” she said. “Merely troublesome. I have some in my garden. But it’s dear enough to me that I won’t offer it for free.”

Clarimonde sighed. “I expected as much,” she said. “Well… what cost did you have in mind?”

Mother Barclay turned to Miss Molinari. “The cost is yours,” she said. She reached across the table, gently taking the other woman’s hand in hers. “My daughter has made a home with her dear friend in Bath. I have been meaning to visit her, but it is a terribly long way for an old woman to travel alone. Will you see me there?”

Clarimonde was expecting Miss Molinari to protest, once again. Instead, she hesitated visibly, considering the request. “I have always wanted to visit Bath,” she admitted slowly. “But… I could not possibly impose upon some poor stranger’s hospitality.”

Mother Barclay tutted at her. “Nonsense,” she said. “I so rarely see my daughter. Your presence is no imposition if I’ve asked for your assistance.”