Page 54

If possible, the mist in Hollowvale proper was even more impenetrable than it had been in England; it clung to Clarimonde’s limbs, weighing heavily upon her every step. The darkness, too, had closed so perfectly around her that she might as well have walked into the ocean.

She kept her eyes firmly upon the flickering blue light in the distance. If ever she lost sight of it, she knew, she would become entirely untethered.

There was no judging distance in the darkness… but it could not have been very long at all before she found herself looking up at a different building entirely, standing like a mirror to the Hollow House. This one, however, was smaller and somewhat less impressive; in fact, it would not have looked out of place on a London side street. Its stone walls were crumbling and faded; the blue candlelight that called from within washed over the entire edifice, emphasising its flaws wherever it clung to them.

The front door of the other house was standing open, too.

Clarimonde quickened her steps. As her foot crossed the house’s doorway, she felt a quiet sense of relief—as though she had discovered solid ground again.

The halls were eerily silent, and utterly abandoned. Here and there, she passed what seemed to be old bedrooms left to rot; Hollowvale’s strange white roses had crept in to reclaim them, crawling over furniture and stone. The entire place had taken on an awful scent akin to that which had surrounded Mr Bligh’s sickbed.

Distantly, however, Clarimonde began to hear a voice.

“—honestly too bold by far,” Tertia was saying. “I cannot stand for it. No, I simply will not stand for it. You would never have brooked such rudeness in your own home, I am certain.”

Clarimonde froze against the wall, holding her breath. But Tertia simply kept speaking, without leaving any room for true reply.

“It is exhausting,” Tertia cried softly. “I give, and I give, and I give… but it is never quite enough, is it? Everyone always wants more from me. They smile to my face, but they are always calculating what they can take from me. I begin to believe that there is no kindness in this world at all, except the kindness that I make myself.”

No one replied to her. Perhaps, Clarimonde thought, the person on the other side of the conversation had long since given up trying to get a word in edgeways.

“Well. No matter.” Tertia’s voice turned hard. “I will look after myself, as I have always done. Everyone forgets somehow who my father was—because I am much lovelier than he was, I suppose. But I remember all of his lessons. Where generosity fails, blood and iron must soon follow.”

The ugliness which Clarimonde had sometimes noticed haunting Tertia’s sweet voice had now swept in again. This time it was plainly obvious, without even the slightest veneer of civility.

Soft footsteps started down the hallway towards Clarimonde. Instinctive panic seized her, despite the spell that cloaked her presence; she backed into the bedroom just behind her, pressing her back to its overgrown stone wall, and covered her mouth with one hand.

The awful, rotting smell that she had noted on her entrance to the building was much worse in here. In fact, it was enough to churn the stomach.

There was something in the corner next to her, nudging awkwardly against her foot. At first, she thought it was a rolled up rug, or else a pile of old rags… but it was far too wet and heavy to be either of those things. As she stared down at it in the near-darkness, waiting for the footsteps in the hallway to pass, her eyes strained to make out helpful details.

A pale and ghastly hand peeked out from beneath the rags.

Clarimonde stared at it with horror. At first, all she felt was the emotion; but then, all at once, her body seized with a physical, visceral reaction. Her pulse stuttered drunkenly; her skin went cold and clammy. Suddenly, she found herself on her knees, crawling across the stone to get away from the gruesome pile in the corner.

It was Mr Bligh’s body. There was not nearly enough light for her to know it—but somehow, she recognised the fine bones in his slowly rotting hand. No one had come to take his body away, had they? He had not had a funeral. But his body could not stay in that bed, after all; Tertia always had new artists at her door in need of lodgings.

Clarimonde pressed her forehead to the cold stone floor, trying to control the nausea that now threatened to overwhelm her. Each second felt more agonising than the last, as Tertia’s footsteps moved for the front door.

Finally, all was silent in the other house.

All of the food that Clarimonde had eaten at Mother Barclay’s residence now came up at once. She let it go, knowing that she would be better off with an empty stomach.

When finally she had nothing left to purge, she lay on the floor, allowing herself to tremble through the aftershocks. She counted breaths and focussed on the tips of her fingers, willing them to feel sensations again.

And then—because she was entirely too sensible for her own good—she forced herself to climb back to her feet.

Her hand slipped into her pocket, in search of a little silver pill case. Thank goodness, though—there was only that brass pocket watch to greet her. She would have taken the opium if it had been there, Clarimonde knew. No amount of willpower had ever been enough to save her; only foresight and the removal of temptation had finally helped her walk away.

It was the pocket watch that gave her the courage to continue down that hallway, to see who Tertia had been speaking with. Part of her already suspected what it was that she might find—but she had to know, had to see it for herself.

There was another larger bedroom at the end of the hallway—but it had no bed within it. Instead, there was a white stone bier, entirely overgrown with roses.

The man upon it was so pale and still that at first, Clarimonde feared that he was truly dead. He had always been the sunless shade of a man consumed by his own library—but Faerie and eternal rest had now drained away what remained of his colour. His white-blond hair was longer than she remembered it; his practical brown waistcoat and trousers had frayed in places, patched with grey, forgotten memories. A clumsy painting of his likeness stood upon an easel in the corner, half-finished and long since abandoned.

Lord Elias Wilder had not aged a day. There was something unnerving about that, beyond the sight of him sleeping so impossibly sound while bodies rotted in the other rooms around him. He should not have seemed to be Clarimonde’s age; he should have been much older. But perhaps, she thought dimly, that was why he had left England when he did.

Slowly—tremulously—she stepped towards him. One hand came down to press against his chest, just over his heart.