Chapter Eleven
When morning came, a knock drew me from my slumber.
My vision still bleary, I rose and crossed to my door. I’d slept fitfully, memories of my conversation with Noé scratching at my head. All through the night’s quiet, I’d recalled the low hum of his voice, beating in realities I wished to avoid acknowledging. He was hard on you, out there.
It was true, I knew that. Eliot had been harsh during our talk—harsher than I’d realized he could be. Yet more than anything else about our argument, what I hated the most was that my fiancé had witnessed it.
I paused as I neared my door. In my distracted state, I’d forgotten to cover my standing mirror before taking to my bed last night, and now a flicker of movement within it caught my attention.
A figure. They were standing by my window—thrown open in the mirror’s reflection, though a quick glance assured me that the version in my room was closed.
Their face was obscured by the billowing curtains.
As I watched, they turned their head slowly toward me, the motion like a bride shifting beneath her veil.
Marie-Louise?
My breath caught. I stepped closer to the looking glass just as another burst of knocking startled me. On instinct, I glanced toward my door, then trepidatiously back at my reflection again.
The form which had been present only a moment ago was gone.
Apprehension lifted the hairs on the back of my neck. First the early-morning summons, now my fellow silkwitch. This morning was proving to be quite a busy one indeed.
I nearly collided with Mia upon opening my door.
She was tipped toward the entrance as though poised to knock again, wearing an expression of unusual urgency.
The frilled collar of her dress was wrinkled, as if she had just pulled it from the bottom of her trunk.
What has brought her here in such a fuss?
“Miss.” My maid curtsied hurriedly, her eyes wide and urgent. “We must go. They’re waiting for you in the library.”
She turned as if to leave, but I stepped forward, calling her back. “Who is waiting?”
It was, I thought, a natural question, yet Mia seemed befuddled by my prying. She glanced over her shoulder with a furrowed brow. “Your guests, miss.”
Well. That cleared up precisely nothing.
Leaving her in the corridor for a moment, I dressed myself hurriedly in the first frock I pulled from my wardrobe, binding my hair into a caul.
Studying myself in my mirror, I searched one final time for a glimpse of the figure I’d sighted earlier, but they’d gone—vanished as completely as a huff of fogged breath upon the glass.
I trailed a finger down the mirror’s surface, frowning. Then I went to face my guests.
I heard my visitors before I saw them. As Mia and I neared the library doors, I detected sounds of happy chatter—the peal of high, girlish voices twittering to one another, the gentle clink of coffee cups.
The variance in speakers was greater than I’d anticipated; slowing, I attempted to hiss a command at my maid’s back, but she was already whipping the great doors open, exposing me to the room within.
It was like staring down a pack of lions.
Aside from the usual huddle of Alaire maids, there were five girls in the library, all of them having turned at the sound of the doors opening to face in my direction.
Like me, they wore cauls; a few held steaming drinks in hand, now lowered at my appearance.
I recognized every last one of them. The dark-haired girl by the windows was Delphine Barbier; the mousy, pale-eyed one on the sofa nearest her was Mireille Laurent.
To their left, Anais Tremblay stood conversing with Manon Blanc, with another girl—Nathalie Moreau, I thought—forming the third point of their triangle.
Silkwitches. My stomach turned. Each of the girls assembled here had competed alongside me in the Vainglory—and each one of them, I’d bested at some point during the tournament.
With the exception of Anais, I’d seen none of them since being crowned victor, yet now it seemed our little group had gathered again.
At once, I shed the last of my drowsiness. Since Bastian had tasked me with solving Sybil’s murder, our game had settled into a sort of stalemate, both of us waiting—watching—to see what the other would do.
Now I sensed that had changed.
Someone had made a move—and this was the result.
“Ah! Miss Lovett. You’ve joined us—good.
” Somehow, I was unsurprised when the Weaver King himself glided into the room behind me, Mariéprix on his finger and a lacquered cane in hand.
He lifted the latter in a prompting manner, directing it toward the rest of the silkwitches.
“Girls! Don’t be shy. Come—shall we all say congratulations to our champion? ”
I suppressed a wince as the group broke into an obedient, if half-hearted, round of applause. Looking away from them—it was unnerving, how intensely all of their gazes were fixed on me—I spoke in a low voice to Bastian. “What are they doing here?”
“They are your bridesmaids, of course.” The Weaver King paused beside me, his voice cheerful. “Did you think we would leave you to wed without any?” He chuckled. “My darling, simply because you were unable to win any friends during the Vainglory does not mean you should stand lonely at the altar.”
A flush washed over me, illogical but fierce, as he cleared his throat.
“Miss Lavoie’s fiancé is bringing her by later, though unfortunately Miss Rochefort and Miss Winn were unable to attend our gathering on such short notice, owing to their own wedding duties,” Bastian continued, with a nod in the direction of the collected girls.
“Still, five seems to me a decent place to start.”
His voice slid into my thoughts gracefully, like the drop of a knife. Your suspects, my dear, as promised.
Bile rose in my throat. So this was his play, then. I had asked Bastian for access to the relevant suspects in Sybil’s murder—but I’d hoped he would furnish me with them one at a time, not grouped together in a single mass. How was I meant to make any progress with a party this size?
And—bridesmaids. I did not like the implications of that word. I did not like them at all.
A loud clap from Bastian drew me back. “Ladies!” he called out in a bright tone.
“I will leave you be. Tell me, did everyone receive their schedules?” He cast a scrupulous look around the group, pleased when the silkwitches replied with unanimous nods.
“Good, good,” he said. Snapping his fingers, he beckoned over my maid, who’d taken up a post near the door.
“Little one—Mia, yes?—would you be so good as to fetch an itinerary for our bride?”
He turned to me as she scurried away.
“I, more than anyone, understand that quality work cannot be rushed,” he remarked in a hushed tone. “I think, dear Miss Lovett, you’ll find I’ve provided you with ample opportunity to advance your investigation over the next couple of weeks, so long as you are clever about it.”
Mia hurried back up to us as he finished speaking. Smiling, he took the scroll of paper she offered to him and passed it to me. It was tied with a length of glossy yellow ribbon; where the sunlight shone on the paper, I could make out the shadow of letters inked on its opposite side.
I unrolled it as Bastian retreated, Mia trailing silently after him.
The schedule was disfigured with an inordinate amount of flourishes which rendered its subject matter almost illegible.
I’d barely decoded the first listing—today’s, for a bridal tea—when Anais overtook me, slipping her arm through my elbow.
Her smile was feline, coy and completely self-satisfied. “Hello again, friend.”
I shot her a glare as her hand came to rest over my forearm. “You could have warned me.” Her comment at the Winns’ last night suddenly made a great deal more sense. A bit earlier than expected, she’d said. Because she’d known she’d be attending whatever this was come daylight.
The other silkwitch laughed. “My dear, but what would be the fun in that?” Pressing nearer to me, she dropped her volume. “How long did you remain at the Winns’ yesterday after we spoke?”
Her tone had shifted. Suspicious, I tilted my chin to study her more closely. “Not so very long,” I answered. “In fact, I’d hoped to converse with you further. Shall we pick up where we left off?”
I was thinking of her gloves. Yet as if sensing that she was being baited, Anais wrinkled her nose. “Later,” she said. “I’ve other obligations.”
Her gaze drifted toward Manon. The other silkwitch was facing away from the pair of us, still chatting with Nathalie Moreau. As she watched the two of them talking, Anais’s mouth crimped, then flattened out again.
I tracked her gaze. Other obligations indeed.
Registering my notice, Anais swung back toward me. “If it is a warning you want,” she said in a brusque tone, “here’s one: Keep to group settings today if you can. You may find that friendly faces become less so when isolated.”
I frowned. She stripped her arm away from mine and glided toward Manon and Nathalie before I could ask her to explain.
Left alone again, I swept my gaze over the room. You may find that friendly faces become less so when isolated. What could Anais have meant by that? Was she only attempting to unease me, or was there another layer to this gathering—one which I’d yet to be made aware of?
Was it possible she knew something I didn’t?
My eyes caught on a figure sitting apart from the rest of the girls. Mireille Laurent, the pale silkwitch who’d been one of the first to go during the Vainglory, was watching me closely. When she saw I’d noticed her, she stretched her lips in a toothy smile, waving me over.
My throat tightened. Collecting myself, I ignored Mireille’s summons and went to join the larger group conversation with the other girls.