Page 47

There was something fluttering about in the fog. More than once, a vast form passed overhead, casting its shadow across her path.

Clearly, she was being stalked.

Clarimonde was appropriately wary, of course… but she was not terribly afraid, given the fresh herbs in her pocket.

Halfway up the stairs, she finally crossed her arms and set her back to the cliff, looking out sternly into the fog.

“Well?” she asked loudly, addressing the great white emptiness around her. “It is very rude to stare at people. If you intend to do something, then you really ought to just get on with it.”

The fog dulled her words, softening the sharpest edges of her obvious disdain. Clarimonde found that she greatly disliked the effect.

Soon, however, a large, ominous shape swooped down from the sky. Too great and terrible to behold all at once, it resolved instead in pieces: A flash of long, cruel talons; a glimpse of bone white feathers; and finally, a single bright blue eye, far bigger than any bird should have possessed.

As the shape came closer, Clarimonde felt more keenly the sense of chthonic, inhuman contempt which accompanied it—much too heavy and incisive to belong to an animal consciousness.

Whatever this creature was, it loathed her in a tangible way that pressed against her skin.

It was a monstrous white rook, she decided, as it swept away into the fog once more—large enough that it might swallow her in a single gulp, if it were so inclined.

Clarimonde sighed and reached into her pocket.

Though she had to rummage for a moment, she eventually unearthed the herb she had been searching for—a sprig of white and yellow honeysuckle flowers, taken from the vines that covered Mother Barclay’s home.

Honeysuckle was marvellously effective at warding off malevolent spirits. Though Clarimonde normally preferred to distill it into an oil, its sweet scent was so virulently off-putting to most otherworldly creatures that they still avoided homes where it was prominently displayed.

Clarimonde cupped her hands around the flower, letting her magic trickle into it gently. The perfect spell, she thought, was rather like gardening; a good magician chose eager material and then encouraged it to blossom into more of what it already was.

Suddenly, Clarimonde found herself afflicted by a deep nostalgia. How long had it been, she wondered, since she had done a spell with freshly plucked herbs? Ever since taking on work at Mr Beagle’s perfume shop, she had been spoiled by the easy availability of oils there. But before that, she had learned the use of traditional herbs from Elias, who tended towards whatever materials he happened to have on hand.

An absent bit of honeysuckle was precisely the sort of spell he might have recommended, were he present to do so.

The white and yellow flowers in Clarimonde’s palm strengthened subtly, unfurling their tiny petals. The sweet scent strengthened, cutting through the dour wetness of the fog.

She tucked the flowers neatly into her braid, and waited.

The next time the great bird swooped past her, it faltered in mid-air. The rook spiralled away with a high shriek of discomfort, flapping urgently away from her.

Clarimonde waited for quite some time after it had disappeared. Part of her wondered, in fact, whether it had decided to abandon her entirely. But eventually, a much smaller humanoid figure resolved out of the fog ahead of her.

She was not entirely surprised when it became a tall, regal woman with long, snowy white hair.

It was not Lord Foxglove; Clarimonde was nearly certain of that. But there was an unmistakable resemblance there that could not be denied. Perhaps, she thought, the two faeries were closely related. Certainly, they had the same icy blue eyes and the same sense of haughty superiority.

Unlike Foxglove, the woman ahead of Clarimonde wore a crown of shimmering moonlight that constantly shifted in form. Her long white gown was of a more exotic nature, threaded through with frost-like patterns—and though Clarimonde did not know how she knew it, she thought that it might be woven from cold, contemptuous hatred.

“What a hideous scent,” the woman said. Somehow, despite the arrogance in her manner, her voice was smooth and lovely. “Surely you cannot find it pleasant either, mortal.”

Clarimonde studied the faerie intently. The crown, she thought, was most surprising. Certainly, Tertia would be furious at the idea of another lovely woman dressed as royalty within her domain.

“I rather like honeysuckle,” Clarimonde replied. “To be fair, it doesn’t bother mortals in the same way that it bothers you, though. It is a plant with strong mortal affections, so to speak.”

There was still a faintly predatory air in the otherworldly woman’s gaze as she focussed intently upon Clarimonde. “It is very impolite to bring such a flower into a faerie kingdom,” she said softly. Her manner was oddly soothing—a sharp contrast to the feral look in her icy blue eyes. “You cannot have known, of course. I will forgive you immediately, if you put it away.”

Clarimonde smiled mirthlessly at her. “Does that often work?” she asked. “I know how you burn with the desire to eat my heart, or peck out my eyes, or… whatever it is you have in mind. It is very obvious in your eyes.”

The tall woman straightened abruptly, as though physically struck. Clarimonde could not help but notice that the reaction was very birdlike.

“You are no fool then,” the woman said. False warmth and humour filtered into her voice now—her primary weapon, Clarimonde thought, just as it was Foxglove’s favourite tool. “It is so rare that I happen upon a mortal with good sense. Please tell me how it is I might address you, great magician.”