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Clarimonde fell into step beside him, with her heart pounding in her throat.
This may be a terrible mistake, she thought. But Mr Brand had implied that he wished for her to succeed at her tasks—and in any case, she knew that he was fully capable of defeating her at a hunt if he decided he was of a mind to do so.
Clarimonde walked in silence behind the others, with her eyes fixed carefully upon their backs. She offered out the pocket watch to Mr Brand.
He took it from her without comment.
CHAPTER 20
“Mortal cruelty is very nearly identical to faerie cruelty. The latter merely tends to be more effective in its execution.”
LORD ELIAS WILDER TO MISS CLARIMONDE BETONY, AGE 14
Clarimonde kept her eyes firmly on the floor as Tertia led the gathering through the gallery to the other side of the Hollow House. She was convinced that if she looked up, someone would surely see a sign that she had been there before.
In truth, however, no one was terribly focussed upon Clarimonde. For all that this hunt had been framed as one of her tasks, it was clear that for everyone else present, it was simply an end unto itself. Foxglove’s elaborate murder was just another of Lady Hollowvale’s legendary entertainments, generously provided to her adoring guests.
The doors that led into Faerie stood open once again, leaking midnight fog upon the marble floor. A few of the guests managed an instant of hesitation as they took in the foreboding sight—but as Tertia disappeared into the mist, they followed swiftly after her, distressed at the idea that they might be left behind.
Clarimonde opened her parasol, casting its light across the path ahead of her. This time, those glimmers of moonlight caught upon tall, arching trees, clad in delicate, silvery leaves. In the space of only a few hours, Hollowvale had grown an entire forest… or else, perhaps it had moved one.
Nevertheless, Tertia was easy to find; she had not gone terribly far. Soon, Clarimonde came upon the Leanansidhe standing within a clearing before two majestic white horses tacked in silver and black leather. The rest of the guests had crowded around Tertia, though they maintained a respectful distance as they waited for her to speak.
Mr Brand did not pause at the sight of the crowd. Rather, he walked slowly through them, with his black dog close at his heels. People parted swiftly before him, scattering like wary insects. Clarimonde took advantage of the opening to follow in his wake, forcing her way to the front.
“A proper fox hunt requires horses, of course,” Tertia told the group sweetly. “And I have thus provided.”
Clarimonde frowned uneasily at the sight. She counted the horses again, as though more of them might soon appear—but their number did not change. “There are only two horses here,” Clarimonde observed slowly. “We have many more hunters than that.”
Tertia laughed. “We do!” she said. “But my hunters will require no horses.” She turned to address the gathering, spreading her arms wide. “Who will volunteer to hunt on my behalf?” she called to them. “Surely, all of you are loyal to your benefactor?”
Several guests jostled for the privilege of presenting themselves first. A dark-haired man—fond of charcoal drawings, Clairmonde thought—shoved his way past her in order to drop to one knee before Tertia.
“I am your humble servant, Lady Hollowvale,” he swore. “I will bring you back this fox.”
Tertia smiled down at him beatifically. “And will you tear that fox apart for me?” she asked. “Will you bring his tail to me, that I might blood my cheeks?”
“Yes, of course,” her guest promised. “I will do all of that for you, my lady.”
“I will do it first!” another artist interjected eagerly.
“I am an excellent rider!” said a woman in a dark wool frock. “Give me a horse and I will ride this fox down, even in the darkness!”
Tertia held up her hand against the clamour, delicately gesturing for silence. “All of you will have your chance,” she assured the crowd. “Your loyalty touches me greatly. You need no horses—for I have a gift to offer you before we begin the hunt.”
A chill raced down Clarimonde’s spine. “Don’t,” she told the kneeling artist sharply. “Accept no gifts. You will regret them terribly, I assure you.”
Tertia turned a cold smile upon Clarimonde. “You need not worry, Clarimonde,” she said. “I offer you no gifts. You must complete this task without my aid, after all.” She offered her leather gloved hand to the artist kneeling before her. “Kiss my hand,” she said, “and receive my blessing.”
The kneeling artist did not hesitate. He pressed his lips fervently to Tertia’s glove, as though worshipping at an altar.
As Tertia continued through the throng, guests dropped to their knees one by one, each desperate to kiss her proffered hand. Clarimonde watched with horror, aware that something irrevocable was happening before her eyes.
Mr Brand stood next to Clarimonde, still and silent. He watched impassively, without any hint of pity in his dark gaze.
It was difficult at first to tell that anything had changed; the midnight fog made shadows of the mortals still kneeling on the ground. But presently, there came a high-pitched scream from the first man who had kneeled; he clawed at the dirt before him, writhing in obvious agony. There was another cry from the woman behind him—and then another, and another, from the rest of the gathering.
Soon, the shrieks of pain became a collective howl.
