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In the ages since, other faeries have learned to change their names, in order to become something else—but it is possible that Lady Hollowvale was the first faerie ever to do so. Most firsts are messy and imperfect, and this was no exception. Without her name, which had given her such certainty and power, the faerie that had once been Lady Hollowvale was now nothing more than a little white mouse.

In the absence of that grand and secret name, Hollowvale failed to recognise its former lady. Newborn and confused, the mouse found herself chased from the realm that she herself had once created, crying out uselessly for Hollowvale’s love. But the realm could not love a mouse any more than the old Lady Hollowvale could have done—for it was crafted in her cruel image.

Nameless and alone, the mouse searched all of Faerie for a place of safety where she might yet rest. Each time she wandered into a new realm, she was hunted—or worse, ignored!—for none could recognise the beautiful and powerful rook in her helplessness.

Finally, the stories claim, the tiny mouse came upon a clearing full of foxglove flowers, somewhere on the outskirts of Faerie. The flowers welcomed her, as foxglove welcomes every faerie equally. And as the mouse curled up in the shadow of their petals, they offered her what little power they possessed.

In the endless years that followed, it is said that the little mouse learned to change her form again. The Lady Foxglove—sometimes now Lord Foxglove—came to call upon her cousins, now desperate for allies and approval where once she had been cruel and proud. And faeries offered the puca a place at their table in order to marvel at the new, pathetic creature that once had been a mighty hunter.

But while the Foxglove puca still remembers the glory of their previous name, they have managed to forget, with time, its poison. And the realm of Hollowvale, still longing for its own reflection, has kept the memory of that name alive.

There is always at least one lie in every story, for all stories eventually pass through lying mortal lips—but I do believe that the better part of this story is true. You have just met the object of Lord Foxglove’s search, which every previous Lord Hollowvale has known enough to hide away from him. I have never heard of a faerie reclaiming their old name… but then, let us suppose that he has found a way to do so.

Perhaps the great rook would indeed wrest back control of her old home—but she would then consume you in a heartbeat. She is no different, in the end, from the woman who now holds this realm. Do not mistake the Fair Folk for something any kinder than my kin—for we are monsters at war with one another, and we trample those who step between us.

CHAPTER 17

“I have lied by omission, which is nearly as terrible as lying to you directly.”

LORD ELIAS WILDER TO MISS CLARIMONDE BETONY, AGE 18

Clarimonde did not want to believe Mr Brand’s story.

Unfortunately, she found that she entirely believed Mr Brand’s story.

Everyone involved in this misadventure had known from the beginning that Lord Foxglove had little to no interest in a magical instrument that he could not even play himself. It was little wonder that he had barely pretended at teaching Clarimonde to play the harp; it was not, in the end, what he was searching for at all.

Clarimonde had foolishly hoped that whatever Foxglove truly wanted, it might remain consistent with her own needs. Perhaps, she had told herself, he would eventually admit to her what he was after, so that they might simply help each other.

But Foxglove did not actually want allies. While he had clearly been forced to acquire them, given his situation, what he truly desired was to be so powerful that he need never rely on anyone else again. And why shouldn’t he desire that? Clarimonde’s situation would certainly be simpler if she were powerful enough to cast down Tertia on her own, without any need for magical harps or strange deceptions or untrustworthy puca.

But then, she consoled herself bitterly, she would not have been the sort of person who tried to rescue dying poets. Perhaps, like the current Lord Sorcier, she would command servants who did not truly wish to serve her and have sisters who did not truly love her.

Clarimonde stood silently in the fog for a few long moments, trying to compose her thoughts. Finally, she forced herself to consider Mr Brand directly.

“I would be a fool to trust you,” she told him quietly. “I will not trust you, any further than I must do. But I recognise that you have risked much in order to allow my sister to spend her last moments with her family, and I believe what you have told me about Lord Foxglove. If there is something I can give you in return for these considerations that does not harm me or the people that I love, then I will give it.”

As Clarimonde spoke the words, she could swear that the black dog at Mr Brand’s side eased its sharp attention. Perhaps, she thought, it had observed a subtle change in her manner… but part of her suspected that the hound had perfectly understood the words that she had spoken.

Mr Brand frowned at her. Again, Clarimonde saw a flicker of confusion on his features. This time, he did not bother to suppress it.

“I did not oblige you to make such an offer,” he murmured. “I have cause to remember, more than most, what mortal generosity is like… but still, it manages to surprise me.” He shook his head. “I will use your favour, have no doubt. But I must ponder how.”

Clarimonde nodded. “I would not ponder for too long,” she advised him briskly. “If I fail at these tasks, then Tertia may well end me before you ever have a chance to hunt me down yourself.” She drew herself up. “And on that note… I now depart your company. I have work to do—whether Foxglove intends to assist me or not.”

Mr Brand watched in silence as Clarimonde continued her climb up the stairs. The black dog shifted obligingly to his other side in order to let her pass.

Neither creature followed in her wake. Soon, they had both disappeared entirely back into the fog.

Clarimonde was unsurprised to discover that Lord Foxglove was absent when she arrived back at the abbey. Though she spent some time searching for him, he was ultimately nowhere to be found.

Given that their mutual safety still hinged upon Miss Molinari’s continued health, however, there was nothing to be done about it. Clarimonde slipped into Miss Molinari’s room in order to collect what clothing and possessions she could find—and then, with great reluctance, she began the trek back down to Whitby, hauling a small travelling trunk as she went.

Early evening had begun to knock at the door by the time she reached Mother Barclay’s house again—though truly, who could tell what time it was in this incessant fog?

“Though Lord Foxglove’s waistcoat does look fetching on you,” Clarimonde told Miss Molinari, “I will need to bring it back to him. I hope you do not mind if he returns your clothing at a later date.”

Miss Molinari rummaged delicately through the trunk until she had retrieved another sombre wool gown. “I will only be glad to be quit of these trousers,” she replied, with a tiny shudder of propriety. “Though… I am beginning to think that there is something odd about the way that your companion can turn into another person. That is not normal, is it?”