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Clarimonde flashed her ticket as she made her way onto an empty second-class carriage, picking her way down the aisle. Though she could have chosen any seat, she selected a bench at the very back, setting her valise on the floor next to her feet and carefully arranging her skirts in order to offer the mouse in her pocket plenty of breathing room.

Clarimonde leaned her forehead against the window frame as the train departed, watching as the station slowly slipped away.

She’d thought herself prepared to leave the city. In the last month, especially, she had pared down her belongings as much as she could manage and left instructions with Hugh for disposal of the rest, in case she was unable to return. Her leather valise held all of the most crucial necessities to see her through the next few days. All of these precautions had turned out to be perfectly sensible—even prescient—now that she’d been forced to execute her worst-case plans.

But in that moment, Clarimonde did not feel proud of herself. Instead, there was only a terrible emptiness inside of her where normal emotions should have been.

I am on a train heading out of London, she thought hollowly. I may not ever return here again. I will certainly never see my room again. I am leaving Hugh behind. Bellamira may be dead already.

What use was there in escaping at all, Clarimonde wondered, if it required her to leave behind so many things she cared about?

Probably, she ought to cry. A long, miserable cry would undoubtedly help. But though she felt the possibility of tears rising up inside of her, she had no desire to cry while the mouse in her pocket could hear it. Just because Lord Foxglove had promised to protect her did not mean that she felt inclined to trust him with her emotions.

Clarimonde’s palm brushed against cool metal—whereupon she realised that her hand had slipped into the pocket opposite of the one where Foxglove currently hid. An old, shameful instinct often led her to seek comfort from the lovely silver pill box that had once been there; but Clarimonde had long since given up that box to Bellamira. In its place was a brass pocket watch that ticked quietly against her fingers.

Clarimonde’s heart clenched in her chest. Nevertheless, she pulled out the pocket watch and clicked it open, in order to read the words on the inside of the lid:

Here is your time.

Once, Clarimonde had been so terrified that she would forget Bellamira’s words to her that she’d paid to have a version of them engraved upon the watch out of her own salary.

Normally, the sight of the watch was a reminder of every reason she’d had to throw away her pill box. Today, however, it seemed to hold an awful double-meaning. Even now, Bellamira’s tiny bit of time was ticking away. Perhaps, in fact, it had already run out.

“Plenty of room in here, it seems!” a man’s voice observed cheerfully. “And the view is excellent, as well.”

Clarimonde glanced up sharply, shoving the watch back into her pocket. A man in a striped linen suit and dark wool coat had strolled into the carriage with her. His too-thin tie seemed to gesture at his pointed leather shoes, and his overly curled moustache surrounded him with the nauseatingly strong miasma of far too much pomade. Contrary to basic manners, he did not tip his bowler hat at Clarimonde in greeting.

Despite the obvious empty seats, the newcomer soon threw himself down directly next to Clarimonde, grinning over at her with an enthusiasm that she did not share. As his leg brushed the edge of her skirts, she jerked back from him with obvious offence. “I did not ask for company,” she told him sharply. “There are several other empty benches, if you would like one to yourself.”

Mr Moustache blinked his watery brown eyes—now offended at her tone in turn. “Good God!” he said. “Is that how you greet every man you meet?”

Clarimonde pressed her lips together. Long ago, she now remembered, Winnie had warned her never to travel alone on trains; ‘always sit down with another woman’, she’d advised. Clarimonde had never bothered to ask her why—but given the number of times she’d swatted off insistent men with her parasol on the way to work, the reason should have been obvious to her.

“I left my parasol in the compounding room at work today,” Clarimonde informed the man flatly.

His brow wrinkled with confusion. “What on earth is that supposed to mean?” he asked. His moustache twitched, and Clarimonde was forced to cover her nose as she caught another hideous whiff of his pomade.

“It means,” she informed him, in a faintly nasal tone, “that I cannot swat you off as I would normally do. Which means, in turn, that I will be forced to use a perfume upon you. And while that might be something of a service to the rest of the people in second class, I guarantee that you would not enjoy the experience.”

The man’s eyes widened with outrage. He leaned in closer, pressing Clarimonde flat against the window. The scent of pomade was now so overwhelming that bile had started to sting at the back of her throat. “Now see here, old girl—” he began.

A small white shape darted up from Clarimonde’s pocket, winding its way around her neck with a loud hiss.

The man with the pomade moustache leapt back with a strangled shriek, stumbling up to his feet. “You brought a reptile on board the ten o’ clock train?” he demanded, in a high-pitched tone. “Is it poisonous?”

Clarimonde craned her neck to glance down at the tiny white viper that had wrapped itself partway around her high collar. “Goodness, I don’t know,” she said honestly. “I would love to find out.”

“You mad harridan!” Mr Moustache edged back through the aisle, with his eyes carefully fixed upon Foxglove. “They’ll throw you off for this!”

Clarimonde sighed heavily. “Lord, how I miss my parasol,” she muttered. Then, more loudly, she said: “Are we done, sir?”

Foxglove hissed again—and this time, Mr Moustache fled the vicinity entirely, disappearing from the carriage.

Clarimonde leaned her head against the window frame again, as a piercing headache started up behind her eyes. “I do appreciate the assistance,” she mumbled, “but I could have handled that myself. Now that I think on the matter, I have a perfume for safe travels in my valise.”

A soft voice hissed into her ear, in reply. “Perhapssss,” Lord Foxglove agreed. “But we might yet require your perfumessss for other endeavourssss.”

Clarimonde grimaced. “Well… that is true,” she admitted. “I only have so many.”