Page 48
Clarimonde met that cold blue gaze directly. “I am Miss Clarimonde Betony,” she said. “But you will find no more weapon in my name than anyone else has done. You are free, of course, to try your hand regardless.”
The faerie woman’s blue eyes flickered with fresh, cold ire. “How impudent, Miss Clarimonde Betony,” she said—and naturally, Clarimonde felt the weight of the other woman’s will upon the name, as though she were trying to wrench it away and crush it.
Clarimonde had never tried to use someone’s name against them before; as such, she did not know what people felt when they tried to use hers. Sometimes, though, she imagined that it was like trying to move a very big stone without a lever. Eventually, they all grew tired of the effort and abandoned it with varying levels of shock, or weariness, or annoyance.
The faerie woman gave up far more quickly than most. Despite her crown and her dreadful aura, there was something oddly ephemeral about her power and her presence. For just a moment, Clarimonde swore that she had seen the woman’s figure waver in the fog, halfway transparent. The visible weakness sent a flicker of panic across her lovely features, before she regained control of her face.
Clarimonde sharpened her attention on that crown of shifting moonlight. It too seemed dangerously insubstantial.
“Who are you?” Clarimonde asked slowly. “You are not the ruler of this realm. But you so clearly resemble Lord Foxglove.”
The faerie woman narrowed her eyes. “I am Lady Hollowvale,” she declared. “And how dare you compare me to some foxglove pretender! No foxglove flower will ever dare to sully my kingdom.”
Clarimonde blinked. There was real fury in the pale woman’s manner now—and she had no doubt that she had truly insulted her in some way. “I don’t understand,” Clarimonde admitted. “I know a puca called Lord Foxglove. Is that not a realm in Faerie?”
The false Lady Hollowvale laughed scornfully. “Oh, you sweet child,” she said. “Foxglove flowers grow in the furthest, wildest parts of Faerie. If honeysuckle is a plant with strong mortal affections, then foxglove tenders strong affections for any faerie who might cross its path. Faeries who are desperate for a title will go beg some foxglove field for its approval—and always, it is granted. To be Lord Foxglove is to be lord of nothing at all.”
Clarimonde’s lips parted with sudden understanding.
“Oh,” she whispered.
Surely, everyone else had known the meaning of the title but her? Winnie and the new Lord Mourningwood had certainly known. Even Bellamira might have understood the truth. No one, Clarimonde realised, had bothered to speak aloud what had already seemed obvious to them.
Until now, she had assumed that Lord Foxglove was a powerful creature, constantly looking down his nose at her and enjoying her difficulties. And while perhaps that was true in some sense, it was easy now to look back at his careful manner and discover in him the fear of a prey animal, constantly watching his surroundings for any hint of realistic threat.
Clarimonde remembered now his economisation with clothing, and his fussiness with hair. Lord Foxglove, she thought, was a poor faerie cousin, desperately trying to present as though he had not fallen on hard times.
She wondered, suddenly, if the woman in front of her would eat him up, given half a chance.
“You are not Lady Hollowvale,” Clarimonde said slowly. “But you are something of the sort. And you have been here all along, haven’t you? You know enough to keep your distance from Tertia, at least. She would destroy you in a heartbeat if she saw you.”
The faerie woman’s arrogant manner faltered. Briefly, the flickering crown upon her head disappeared entirely, swallowed up by the fog.
“I… am… Lady Hollowvale,” she whispered. “Aren’t I?”
“She is a memory,” said Mr Brand.
Clarimonde startled.
The shadow of a hound now melted into view partway between Clarimonde and Lady Hollowvale—or else perhaps it had already been there, and it was simply now more visible. The hound paced slowly back and forth upon the stairs, watching the faerie woman with wary red eyes.
Mr Brand walked carelessly past the faerie woman. Or—no. He had walked through her, as though she did not truly exist. The fog wavered and dispersed as he stepped through her, before it managed to reform itself into her figure once again.
Clarimonde drew in a long, harsh breath. Once again, the object of all her hatred had presented himself… but this time, Lord Foxglove was not here to pry her back from him. If she wanted to, she knew, she could do her very worst upon him… especially with a pocket full of fresh herbs meant to conquer evil.
Mr Brand passed his hound, then settled himself in place, considering Clarimonde from a distance. “Hollowvale is an oddly sentimental realm,” he said. “It often clings to the past. Its first and favourite lady once gave up her name and became something new… but Hollowvale would not let that old name die. Instead, it haunts this place like a ghost, while Hollowvale pretends that everything is as it was before.”
Clarimonde narrowed her eyes at him. For the moment, at least, he was keeping his distance… which only made sense, she realised, as she still wore the honeysuckle in her hair.
She was reasonably certain that Mr Brand could not lie, any more than either Tertia or Lord Foxglove could do. But surely, he had ulterior motives behind any truth that he deigned to tell her.
“I am Lady Hollowvale,” the apparition in the mist repeated stubbornly. But a note of fearful uncertainty had now infected her voice. The edges of her gown wavered dangerously, wafting away into the fog.
“You are a selfish realm’s shortsighted wish,” Mr Brand told the ghost behind him. He did not bother to turn his head as he spoke. “This version of her is never coming back. You would do best to accept that… but of course, you never will.”
The statement fell upon the stairs like a lead weight. The faerie woman’s cold blue eyes flickered with terrible anguish. A high, keening scream of grief lifted into the sky—something between a bird’s shriek and a woman’s wail.
Suddenly, the faerie woman was gone.
