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Clarimonde considered the poor deceased maid with a deep pang of pity. They did share several features in common—their hair was nearly the same colour, and exactly the same length. The other woman’s chin was rather the same shape as hers. Though no one would ever have mistaken them for sisters, there was nevertheless a certain crude resemblance between them.

The discovery should have struck her with fear. Instead, Clarimonde found herself weary.

I must put an end to this today, she thought. All of it must end.

One of the birds next to the chaise began to tweet. Another soon joined in, tittering through its empty song. Soon, every cage had come mechanically alive at once, in an ugly chorus of clashing melodies.

Tertia stepped smoothly through the golden mirror into the boudoir. Again, she wore her thin peacock dressing gown, with her black hair long and loose about her shoulders. There was an open violence in her movement that had previously been hidden just beneath the surface—a suggestion that her anger was yet far from sated.

The Leanansidhe stroked a finger across each birdcage as she went. At her touch, the birds died again, frozen mid-song, with their beaks gaping silently wide.

Finally, Tertia stood before Clarimonde, looking down at her with a contemptuous curl of her lip. In that moment, Clarimonde became aware that the dormouse on her shoulder was gone—perhaps, she thought, now hidden inside of her pocket.

“I have not eaten well today,” said Tertia tightly. “A maid, of all things! Look at her—some minor talent with a mop, I suppose. But so very useless and common.”

Clarimonde returned her gaze to the woman on the chaise. “Perhaps you should not have turned all of your artists into hounds,” she observed evenly.

Tertia lashed out at the nearest bird cage with sudden fury. It crashed to the floor with a strange, dying warble.

“All of this is your fault,” Tertia hissed. Her red eyes flared in the candlelight. “I have been gracious. I have been generous. I entertained your silly offer and granted you hospitality. I protected you from my brother’s hound⁠—”

“I have brought your perfume,” Clarimonde interrupted her calmly. “Exactly as we agreed.” She pulled a tiny, opaque glass bottle from the pocket of her wool gown, offering it out.

Tertia stared at it, still struggling with her emotions.

“I have fulfilled my part of our bargain,” Clarimonde said. “This is my third task done. Whether you accept my work or not is of no consequence to me.”

Tertia’s jaw trembled. She reached one pale, elegant hand towards the perfume… then paused abruptly.

“Show me,” Tertia said, in a hard, clipped tone. “Here.”

She stalked for the corner of the room opposite where the golden harp had been. Now, Clarimonde saw, it had become a jagged ivory harp, strung with thin yellow strands that should not have been able to endure the pressure. And indeed, some of them had not endured it—several were now missing, due to time or careless use.

Tertia halted just before the harp. “You will test your own perfume,” she said flatly, “and draw a single note from this harp. Just one. Play more than that, and I will end you where you stand.”

Clarimonde walked slowly for the harp. “Why not play it yourself?” she asked.

“Oh, I shall,” Tertia assured her grimly. “But I am not the fool you seem to think me, dearest Clarimonde. How do I know what you have put into that perfume? If I apply it to myself, it will affect me deeply. And perhaps that is for the best, if it does only what you claim. But if you are trying to deceive me…” Her blood red lips turned upwards. “Suffer your own magic first, magician—and I will watch to see how you endure it.”

Clarimonde did not dare to hesitate. She pulled the stopper from the bottle, dabbing a bit of the paste onto the inside of her wrist. There had been no time for tinctures. Instead, there was the sharp scent of fresh-crushed rosemary and sage, for memory; sweet thyme, for clarity of sight and thought.

And, underwriting all the rest, a subtle hint of honey.

Clarimonde had never dared to apply oil of datura directly to her skin before. The effect was instantaneously potent. Shadows deepened around her once again, crawling in to surround her. Blue candlelight burned upon her skin. Somewhere at the edge of her vision, she became aware of a hideous, nauseating presence—awful beyond anything that she had ever seen before.

That is Tertia as she truly is, Clarimonde realised. Oh, the Leanansidhe was physically beautiful—that was no mere illusion. But the stench of her bloody, rotting cruelty was so far beyond description that Clarimonde had to struggle not to visibly gag on it.

She did not dare to look at Tertia directly. The sight of the creature that hid beneath her skin-deep beauty might yet well and truly break her.

The harp had transformed, too. Its yellowing bone now shined bright white within the darkness; its remaining brittle strings dripped with warm liquid sunlight. The instrument radiated a strange reassurance that drew Clarimonde closer—and she knew, somehow, that it was willing to accept her touch.

She stroked one finger carefully along the longest, deepest string. The harp hummed faintly in reply. As she plucked the string, the hum became a single note—clear and clean and heartbreakingly pure. The sound echoed heavily in the boudoir, smothering the room in bittersweet sorrow.

As it reverberated, even Tertia fell into an awed silence. Clarimonde felt the Leanansidhe’s hungry stare, though she did not dare to turn her head.

Clarimonde drew back her hand reluctantly. Part of her longed to keep playing… but she knew that she was missing the skill that might transform each impossibly poignant note into proper music. In some respects, she thought, trying to play the harp with her rudimentary abilities would be an insult; she had not worked enough, had not sacrificed her time and effort in order to learn the instrument. It deserved the hand of someone who had already shown it long respect.

“Step away from the harp,” Tertia commanded urgently. “And give me the perfume.” There was a breathless eagerness in her voice now—an excitement beyond anything that she had ever shown before.