Page 61

That the people she had eaten with and gone to church with had turned against her so easily, though, was a horror that she could not entirely banish. Would Miss Molinari have done the same, if she had been present for this hunt?

She could not afford to dwell on that idea. She had to save Foxglove. In fact, she had to save herself.

The black dog quickened its pace, though it remained carefully at the edge of Clarimonde’s sight. It moved with such unerring focus that Clarimonde had to assume it had indeed been given Foxglove’s hair.

She did not dare call out again.

Clarimonde reapplied the perfume to her horse more than once as they followed the black dog through the fog. Here and there, howls sounded in the distance, making her heart clench in her chest. Surely, she told herself, Foxglove would survive until she could find her. The faerie had spent so much of her life surviving—she must have been practised at it by now.

Even as she clung to this thought, however, she became aware of a large white shadow flying through the trees above her. Fog roiled as it passed—but somehow, the silver leaves remained entirely still and silent.

Clarimonde sucked in a sharp breath. We are hunting in Hollowvale, she realised. Of course the rook has joined us.

She urged her horse faster, despite the trembling exhaustion that had set into her limbs. The black dog matched her speed, cutting through the darkness with envious ease.

Without the hound’s assistance, Clarimonde might well have missed the object of her search. She had been expecting, at least, a tiny flash of white to alert her—but she had underestimated Foxglove terribly.

Instead, she nearly rode directly past the black dog, which had stopped before a large gnarled tree. Clarimonde was briefly beset by consternation, as she realised that she hadn’t the first idea of how to turn a horse around—but as her mount slowed, she solved the matter by sliding from its back entirely and tugging it behind her by the reins.

Mr Brand’s black dog sat patiently beneath the tree, staring up at its branches with calm expectation. Clarimonde followed its gaze, but saw nothing out of place.

“Foxglove!” she whispered urgently. “Are you here? I’ve barely any plan, but I have made it to you first, and that is the most important part. Trust me, please, ignore the dog. If you come down⁠—”

A flurry of white feathers burst into view, diving from the tree tops towards one of the lowest branches. A vicious, snowy owl swooped in, angling for the kill, as something scrambled for cover within the branches.

Clarimonde let out a shout of pure indignance. She took a blind swing with her parasol, menacing the owl. Though she did not manage to strike it, the movement forced it to dart away again into the darkness.

“Absolutely not!” she sputtered. White hot fury bubbled up within her chest and spilled into her voice. “Dare me again, you ridiculous turkey! I’ll pluck you bare and turn you into supper!”

Branches rustled again, as something skittered clumsily down the tree. A small, shivering fox pressed itself against Clarimonde’s legs, glancing frantically between the black dog and the tree tops, where the owl had disappeared.

At first, Clarimonde had trouble recognising Foxglove. The faerie’s once-white fur was caked entirely in dark, dry mud, so that only her uncanny blue eyes remained easily visible. But worse—there was a heavy chain collar wrapped around her neck. Clarimonde did not need to see it closely in order to recognise it as iron; each time that it brushed against her leg, she felt a surge of nausea, as her magic twisted uncomfortably away from it.

Had she the time, she would have indulged the instinct to gather the poor fox into her arms—but that time did not exist. Already, a white gown fluttered at the edge of her parasol’s moonlight, as the old Lady Hollowvale crossed fallen silver leaves to stand across from Clarimonde.

Her teeth were long and jagged, this time, and her fingers filed into wicked-looking claws. Cold disdain was plain upon her fine-boned features, mixed with obvious bloodlust. Her crown of moonlight had returned—though it still flickered unsteadily here and there.

“This time, little magician,” the faerie woman hissed, “I will eat you up entirely.”

A low growl rumbled from beside Clarimonde, as Mr Brand’s black dog interjected its opinion of the situation. Dark, drying blood still stained its muzzle with warning. The old Lady Hollowvale narrowed her eyes with fresh wariness, flexing her claws as she reconsidered her opposition.

“You don’t belong here,” Clarimonde told her flatly. “You are a ghost. No… you are less than a ghost. The truest parts of you are just behind me. You have changed—and it is time that you accepted it.”

“That thing is a disgrace!” the faerie woman screeched. “Weak! Disgusting! Cowardly! I will not suffer it to live!”

Clarimonde clenched her jaw. “You’re right,” she said. “Foxglove is a coward. She is clever enough to run when she must, and to hide when she must, and she has made a habit of flattering anyone who might protect her. But she is never cruel without reason, and she is capable of courage when it matters most. She is better than you are—and I will not let you have her.”

The faerie woman’s bright blue eyes wavered strangely as Clarimonde spoke, dimming to fainter pinpricks in the darkness. Her form became less certain, such that the moonlight from the parasol seemed to stream through her.

Hollowvale’s chill deepened around them, as slow spirals of frost crawled across the leaves on the ground. Winter twined its way up Clarimonde’s feet and into her blood. This time, for whatever reason, she did not feel the cold—or rather, it simply did not trouble her. Instead, she felt… powerful.

“In fact,” Clarimonde said in a louder tone, “you are guilty of a far greater crime than weakness: You are boring.”

The faerie woman’s expression shifted to incredulous offence—but Clarimonde continued forcibly, before she could interrupt.

“Cruelty and selfishness are so banal,” Clarimonde told her contemptuously. “They always look the same, regardless of the face that wears them. And honestly: I have had my fill of them. Become more interesting—or else begone.”

The trees that surrounded them were now slick with ice. Snow had begun to fall silently from the sky. The words that Clarimonde spoke became a cloud of mist, twisting on the air; even as she watched, they took on a strange solidity. Long tendrils of fog snared the wavering faerie woman, tightening slowly around her.