Page 66

Finally, Foxglove pulled away—though her hands had found their way to Clarimonde’s waist, where they now continued to linger. “Have you considered looking at the card that your sister gave you?” she asked suddenly.

Clarimonde blinked. “How do you know about that?” she demanded.

Foxglove tapped her nose fondly. “I have peeked through all of your things, of course,” she said. “I opened the envelope, in fact… but the card inside meant very little to me at the time. I wonder if it might seem more sensible now.”

Clarimonde suppressed a huff—but it was admittedly difficult to maintain any true sense of irritation at the faerie, with her hands at her waist and the memory of that pathetically injured fox still fresh in her mind. She rose to search through her valise and plucked the envelope from it.

Moonlight glimmered across the card’s gilded edges as Clarimonde slipped it free. It showed a skeletal figure wielding a bloody sword; at its feet was a serpent, cloven into ten equal pieces.

“Well?” Foxglove prompted her.

Clarimonde studied the illustration intently. “I recognise this card,” she said. “Though… Winnie does not draw it very often. It is the Tenth Memory.”

“Well, yes,” Foxglove agreed impatiently. “I am well acquainted with faerie cards, you know; I did not win that hearse by luck alone. I am asking what the Tenth Memory means to you.”

Clarimonde frowned thoughtfully. “Winnie calls it ‘the death of lies’,” she said. “Sometimes, also, ‘the tyranny of truth’. It is one of her least favourite cards. But… I have always found it comforting. It means, in short, that truth abides. We can reshape it all we like within our minds, but that is mere illusion. The truth does not require our permission in order to exist—and it will always have the final word.”

Foxglove’s expression changed as though she had bitten into something particularly disgusting. “Ah,” she said. “The truth. Well…” She offered Clarimonde a rueful smile. “At least you do always have that close to hand.”

Clarimonde looked down at the card again. “I do,” she said softly. “And I think, perhaps… I may know what to do with it.”

CHAPTER 22

“The truth? No one likes the truth, Miss Betony. Even faeries hate the truth, and it is all they truly have.”

LORD ELIAS WILDER TO MISS CLARIMONDE BETONY, AGE 14

For the first time since Clarimonde had come to Whitby Abbey, the banquet table was bare. The seats were empty; the sumptuous, ever-present feast had been cleared away.

Morning light streamed through the windows of the nave, falling upon the tableau in hushed silence. The empty room now felt very nearly identical to the graveyard just outside.

There were no artists left to take their breakfast, after all.

“Well,” Clarimonde observed quietly. “I suppose that there will be no tea before our morning visit.”

The dormouse on her shoulder heaved a tiny sigh. “She is always so very petty, isn’t she?” it observed. “I could have done with a cup, myself.”

Clarimonde turned back up the stairs. Despite the unexpected snag, her mind was curiously clear, and her breathing was even. It was good, she thought, to be so close to the end of everything. The weight of all this lying had become a slow and smothering blanket—but soon, for better or for worse, that blanket would be gone.

“This is your last chance,” Clarimonde said softly, as they entered the gallery. “You can still leave before we begin.”

The mouse huffed faintly against her neck, tickling her skin with its whiskers. “I understand that I am mostly useless to you, where true things are concerned,” it said. “But I am here, regardless. If nothing else, perhaps I can still provide a distraction should you require one.”

Clarimonde could not quite turn her head to look at the dormouse—but she smiled gently, nevertheless. “I am very fortunate that you agreed to accompany me here,” she told it. “I do not know if I have said as much before.”

The mouse sniffed. “I always knew that was the case,” it replied. “I did not require you to admit it.” But the words were tinted with an unmistakable hint of pleasure.

The door to the boudoir was already slightly ajar, trickling cold blue candlelight across the floor. There was no point in hesitation; Clarimonde stepped across the threshold.

There was something different about the boudoir today. The silent, glimmering birdcages had been rearranged; the instruments were not where she remembered them to be. But after a moment’s consideration, Clarimonde realised that everything was still in its proper place—it had merely been inverted, as though glimpsed through a looking glass.

There was a female figure stretched across the chaise, just in front of the golden mirror—but Clarimonde knew immediately that it was not Tertia, for the Leanansidhe’s characteristic grace was missing. As she drew closer, she saw that it was the maid who had first led her to her bedroom upon her arrival. The young woman was still dressed in her rumpled uniform. Her brown hair had been let down over her shoulders, and her lips were frozen into a dazed smile.

She was not breathing. She had been dead for several hours now, most likely.

Clarimonde and the dormouse fell into a brief, sombre silence.

“She resembles you, I think,” Foxglove murmured. “Do you see it?”