Chapter Twenty-Seven
The hood of her cloak had fallen back, exposing her features. Even if it hadn’t, I would have known who she was.
I had felt the bite of her knife before.
“Clio,” I coughed out. “Come back for another try?” The other silkwitch did not answer me, though pressed against my collarbone, I felt her arm tense in preparation to drag her blade across my throat. Desperate, I raised my own knife, plunging it into the meat of her thigh.
She shrieked, releasing me. Blood spurted against my back as I collapsed to my knees, my head swimming.
How had she gotten into my room? With my Wit focused on deciphering Noé and Eliot’s conversation, it made sense that I’d missed the usual tug at her entrance, but the door had been locked. Had Bastian given her a key?
Surely, that was foul play.
In the same moment, motion erupted from the doorway—Noé, standing in the threshold, a glass of dark liquor in his hand. He faltered as he took in the display before him. “Sisters!”
In my periphery, I saw Clio jump, her hands briefly slipping from where she’d pressed them against the crimson flower blooming through her nightdress.
I guessed she hadn’t anticipated Noé’s presence when she’d slunk into my room—now his unexpected manifestation had thrown her, just as he’d insisted to me that it would.
Damn. I hated when he was right.
Through the gloom, Noé’s gaze found mine. He shed his bleariness quickly—one moment, a tipsy fog clouded his irises; the next, his stare was keen. “What’s happened?” he demanded.
Clio did not grant me time to explain. She hurled herself toward me, aiming for the place where I was crouched, helpless, on the floor. Sensing her, I rolled away—but not quite fast enough. Her hand caught my elbow, sending me sprawling onto my back, my knife held straight against my chest.
Another second, and she’d swung herself on top of me, her thighs locking on either side of my own in a mirror image of the position she’d trapped me in earlier. Her blood dripped onto me, melted red wax.
“Sleeping together already?” she panted. Her eyes were wild—at once I was thrown back to the tunnels, the two of us left to squabble for victory like rats over food. “What would Eliot think?”
I tried to jab my blade up at her, but she snatched my wrist and bent it back, forcing me to drop the weapon.
“What would he think if he knew you’d rather commit murder than marry him?” I spat through gritted teeth.
Clio laughed. “What can I say? I have always wanted the best.”
Behind her there was a flicker of motion.
I slammed my knee into Clio’s injured thigh just as Noé hoisted her up by her elbows, pinning her arms behind her back.
A cry tore from her lips, guttural and pained; scrambling to avoid her wildly flailing legs, I rose to my feet, rushing forward to gather up my knife and tuck it beneath her chin.
I smiled as she panted, chest heaving. “And yet you always come in second.”
Noé tightened his grip on her. “Should we bring her to my father?” he asked. To Clio, he questioned sharply: “Did he send you, to make up for his failed game?”
She grinned, her breath whistling raggedly through her teeth. “He only offered me the opportunity,” she replied. “I took it myself.”
Noé’s jaw flexed. In the chaos of Clio’s assault, I hadn’t yet had a chance to examine him; he looked quite mussed, still dressed in the outfit he’d worn to the pub, his cheeks splotched with red.
Gathering myself, I averted my eyes. “If we take her to Bastian, he won’t punish her,” I answered Noé.
“He might even grant her a reward for her efforts.” My pulse skipped. “We’ll bring her to Eliot.”
I expected Clio to blanch at the suggestion—and indeed, for a second her pale skin seemed to grow sallower, her lips pinching.
But then the emotion passed, and she chuckled.
“Oh, do,” she encouraged. “Please. You could present him with my knife buried in her chest, and he would still insist that she was the one who put it there.” Fixing her stare on me, she dropped her voice to a murmur.
“He despises you,” she said lowly. “Do you know that? One would not think a man so noble was capable of such hatred. It is rather delicious to behold.”
“I think that’s quite enough, Clio,” Noé interjected calmly—yet Clio did not seem cowed. Her gaze lingered on mine, mocking, challenging.
She is self-serving. Vicious. I’m only warning you.
I felt the moment my restraint broke. “You turned him against me,” I spat. Clio laughed again, delighted.
“Oh, but he wanted me to,” she breathed. “Why do you think he proposed, darling? He was looking for an excuse—”
Her voice cut out. Suddenly, I was underwater, watching my limbs move through an aquatic blue haze. Anger had drowned me; I knew what I was about to do, and I felt no guilt for it. My emotions had withered; my mind was pure salt.
I pulled my knife away from her throat and swung it at her hard.
“Tam—Cecilia!” Noé released Clio the second before my blade made contact with her chest. Snarling, she staggered away, my knife ripping through the open air instead. Still, I was not deterred; steadying myself, I prepared to lunge again, drawing my elbow back.
I screamed as Noé’s hand caught my wrist, preventing me from bringing my weapon down, then a second time when Clio scuttled toward the door, dragging her injured leg behind her. My fiancé’s arms came round my waist, lifting me up before I could throw myself forward.
“Kill her, and the blood will be on your hands,” he hissed in my ear. His mouth was pressed against my skin, his words hot. “I will not be able to protect you.” Obstinately, I thrashed again; he held me closer. “Cecilia, it is exactly what my father wants.”
It was—I knew it was—yet regardless, I felt my resolve shatter at the sound of my bedroom door slamming shut. She’s getting away. It was the only thought that mattered; it was my only thought.
It was all I was.
A cry broke from my chest—not my own, but rather wholly independent of me, like a bird splitting apart brush. “Let me go!”
He did. As if answering my call, the door Clio had just escaped through burst open with a great bang, colliding violently with the wall.
Farther down the turret, I heard a series of distant echoing thumps as others did the same—the sounds falling one after the next like a deck of cards, all the way to the tower’s base.
The echo of my scream lingered in the air.
Now that Noé had released me, I found that the desire to chase after Clio had also departed, abject shame flooding me in its place.
My Wit pounded in my chest like a second heartbeat, eager to lash out and strike—something, anything.
I felt like an animal, yowling and clawed and entirely out of my own control.
What just happened?
I tried to force my emotions down, but they writhed in my arms like cats. “Get out.”
At my command, Noé glanced back from where he’d been staring at the now-open door. “We should…” He swallowed, eyes bright. “We should discuss this.”
But I was far beyond the point of discussion.
It was as if Clio’s attack had loosened the knob of control inside me; at once, I felt everything.
The weight of Eliot’s rejection—the agony of seeing him with Clio—the terror of knowing my own death was waiting for me, always, just beyond my line of sight, and the deep-seated dread of wondering whether or not I deserved it.
All the burdens I’d managed to bury since my betrothal now came floating up to the surface, debris caught in a tide.
I was going to cry. I was certain of it, just as I was certain I could not let Noé see me like this. “Fine,” I snapped. “Stay if you wish. I’m going to bed.”
Without waiting for a response, I turned and strode toward the back of the room, aware that my actions were nonsensical, and yet—what else was I to do?
The first sob came as I was climbing in between the unmade sheets, muffled and hiccupped and altogether mortifying.
Covering my face with my hands, I turned toward the pillow, my skin red.
“Tamerlane.” Noé’s voice was soft. I heard him draw closer, and curled in tighter on myself in reaction. My pulse was beating as fast as a mouse’s. “Stop it. You’ll kill yourself if you don’t breathe.”
I gasped, but no air seemed to reach me. “I asked you,” I choked out, “to leave me be.”
“Leave you to your death, you mean. Here—let me.”
He knelt by the bedside. I froze as, gently, he took one of my hands between his, guiding it toward himself.
His eyes on mine, he unbuttoned the collar of his shirt, laying my fingers flat against his bare chest. His skin was as cold and smooth as cream; beneath it, I could make out the faint one-two rhythm of his heart.
The burn in my cheeks deepened. I moved to rip my hand away, but he resisted, holding my palm in place.
“It means nothing,” he said hurriedly. “You loathe me. I loathe you. Come morning, we need never speak of this again. Just for now—let me help you.” He paused. “All right?”
Hesitantly, our gazes met: mine tear-washed and hazy, his intent and inscrutable. In his stare, I saw the words he’d just spoken reflected back again, as if I’d held them up to a mirror. You loathe me. I loathe you. A curious truce—and yet…
It was one I could accept.
He exhaled when I relaxed. Cautiously, he adjusted the position of my hand on his chest, moving it so that the center of my palm was directly above his heart.
The feel of his pulse was stronger now, so near it was almost as though I could close my fingers around it, stow it in my pocket like a sun-warmed coal.
“Can you feel that?” He spoke tentatively; there was something in his manner that made me want to look away.
Swallowing, I nodded.
“Good,” he replied. “Now match your breaths to mine.”
With deliberate slowness, he drew an inhale—and reluctantly, I mimicked the action. Air filled my lungs, perfuming and sweet; in my mind, the fog of panic seemed to abate just a fraction.