Chapter Twenty-Nine
Fortblanche emptied out after breakfast. Only once Bernard assured me that my final bridesmaid had departed did I abandon the drawing room I’d shut myself in, grateful to still be alive.
Nothing much happened for the rest of the day.
I informed Noé of the findings Nathalie had disclosed to me in the afternoon, but he had no more ideas about how to ascertain the identity of the veiled lady than I did.
We spent the evening ensconced in the library, me strategizing, him reading and occasionally calling out lines which he particularly favored for me to hear. A few times, I laughed.
It was all very worrying.
I looked at the monocle before retiring for the night, but its hands had gotten stuck at the six o’clock point and refused to budge.
I tried not to let its lethargy worry me.
The object was evidently Woven—what if it had somehow sensed that I was not its rightful owner and was barring me from whatever secrets it was keeping? What if—
What if, what if, what if. They were about all I had.
A slew of unanswered questions, a veiled lady who was a silkwitch but not one of my witches, a pair of missing gloves, and a tunnel entrance in the billiards room where they’d last been sighted.
It felt like a children’s game: Spot the common thread.
I’d always been good at those sorts of logic puzzles when I was younger.
But if there was a connection now, I couldn’t find it.
Or perhaps it was worse than that. Perhaps none existed at all.
The stalemate ended two mornings later. I was taking my coffee in the breakfast room, sorting through a fresh stack of newspapers.
The message on the monocle had reinforced the theory I’d been entertaining since I’d first heard Nathalie’s description of the veiled lady during my dress fitting, and I was eager to dig up as much information as I was able before the monocle’s clock hands—hopefully—jumped forward again.
I turned to a new page, then paused as I became aware of a presence standing to my left.
For a half second, I thought he was his son. Bastian Alaire had a contrary way of appearing young and old all at once. Immortal, I supposed, was the word. His gray eyes were ancient, all-knowing and wholly out of time.
He grinned down at me, Mariéprix winking from its usual place on his left ring finger.
“Forgive me, dear. Did I catch you by surprise? I only meant to ask whether you might allow me to steal you away for an hour or so. We’ve gotten to know each other so little, and your marriage is approaching so rapidly.
Shall we embark on a father-and-daughter-to-be excursion? ”
As always, Bastian spoke fluidly, as though he were merely reciting a line of dialogue and already knew the response which would come after it.
I knew it would be worthless to deny him.
He’d clearly put substantial effort into his Maiden’s Race and was likely frustrated that I’d not done as he wanted and died.
Whatever the nature of this excursion was, I had the distinct impression that he was coming to the bargaining table.
Not to mention, there were questions I wanted to ask him about the veiled lady, too. Namely, why he hadn’t informed me of her earlier, if Bernard had told him that she’d been sighted with one of his keys.
“Of course, sir,” I said, standing. “That sounds wonderful. Where shall we go?”
His smile widened. “Oh, here and there, I think,” he replied. “You’ll see. The joy is in the discovery, yes?”
As someone currently caught in the middle of a murder investigation, I strongly disagreed.
Still, I followed him out of the breakfast room and to Fortblanche’s front drive, where the automobile Noé had driven us in was waiting.
Bastian patted its polished hood affectionately, then stooped to peer more closely at it.
He scratched his nail over something—a chip in the paintwork, so minuscule I never would have noticed it had he not pointed it out.
He sighed. “You know, sometimes I am convinced he breaks things just to spite me.”
I said nothing. It was such a fatherly remark.
Bastian handled the auto with far more ease than his son had.
I wondered if he was taking me into the capital as we wound down the cliffside road, but Bastian only skirted the city, heading for the bridge which connected the Isle d’Eylau to Balmoore’s mainland.
My pulse skipped as the automobile rolled over the ocean, gray waves below us and fog all around so there was almost no delineation between wet sky and wet sea.
I hadn’t left the island since coming to live with my brother over a year ago. Where in the world were we headed?
The Weaver King said nothing as we drove. Though he had not stated as much, I got the sense he was waiting for me to play a card.
Quickly, I rifled through my deck. “That was a fearsome race you arranged the other day,” I said.
Bastian’s cheek dimpled. “Ah, yes,” he replied without glancing away from the road. “Your first loss, was it not? There is no shame in it—Clio Lavoie is quite the competitor.”
Fog gusted over us, settling damply behind my ears. I felt like a woolen sweater, rain-soaked and moldering. “She is,” I agreed. “Vicious, in fact. Though all the girls fought hard.” I paused. “It may sound foolish, but there were times that I almost believed they were actually trying to kill me.”
The Weaver King gave no response. I let several seconds pass in silence before continuing more bluntly.
“Manon Blanc attempted to push me off a ledge during the bridal tea you arranged. I think I’ve played fair with you. Did you ever mean to let me marry your son, or was your only intention in assigning me the mystery of Sybil’s death to distract me until you managed to have me murdered?”
Bastian’s brow furrowed. Up until a few days ago, I’d rather have taken a blade to the heart than reveal my knowledge of the Weaver King’s plot against me, but the Maiden’s Race—the obviousness of the other girls’ attacks on me—had changed the rules of our match.
He was making moves out in the open now; I would, too.
That and the mere fact that he’d invited me to accompany him on this driving trip indicated that he was intrigued—if not also annoyed—by my survival thus far. If I showed him my hand, perhaps he would be more willing to display his.
It was, at least, a theory.
Finally, Bastian spoke. “How funny.” He shook his head, a soft smile pulling at his lips. “Did you think I would just let you win?”
I didn’t know how to respond. Watching me, Bastian leaned forward to fill the silence.
“I must admit, I’m surprised you are taking this so personally,” he remarked. “Noé, of course—he is an irrational creature, driven entirely by whims and emotion—but I expected you, of all people, to understand the motivating benefits of a little…competition.”
Rage boiled in my veins. So that was why he was doing this.
It was all just another trial.
“And if I prove victorious,” I replied. “If I stay alive until my wedding day, and solve the murder you’ve laid out—then what? We become one happy family, after you have attempted to have me murdered?”
Bastian waved a hand. “Please. A little murder is healthy for a family. My grandfather nearly beat my great-uncle to death over a business dispute—and it is rumored that his father before him poisoned his parents because their longevity was substantially delaying his inheritance. Frankly, I do not respect any relative who has not attempted to do away with me at one time or another. It implies a certain lack of ambition.”
He guided the automobile over a bump in the road—we’d moved off the bridge and were bouncing along the coastline, hemmed in by a dense jacket of fog—then turned back to me.
“You misunderstand, Miss Lovett. All I’m attempting to do is remind you of the ruthlessness of your peers. I didn’t force your fellow witches to take up arms against you—quite the contrary. I merely offered them an opportunity. Does it not shock you, how many of them took it?”
His arched brow underlined his point. I shifted straight forward in my seat.
In truth, my fellow silkwitches’ actions over the past week or so had done worse than shocked me—they had frightened me.
I’d never concerned myself with making friends during the Vainglory.
In my past life, I’d never needed them; such relationships had always seemed sentimental at best, dangerous at worst. Like weights tied to one’s belt, it was best to cut any potential companions off before they inevitably dragged you down.
Until recently, I’d never considered that there might be a flaw in my thinking. That without any loyalties to burden me, I was on my own, but also—
Well, that was it, wasn’t it? I was on my own.
My fingers itched. I resisted the urge to slip them beneath my caul and feel the bump which had swollen over the place where Clio had smashed my head into the floorboards.
“Ah.” Bastian’s voice drew me out of my haze. The automobile was slowing; around us, mist collected in damp yellow pools, so thick it almost appeared liquid. “We’ve reached our destination.”
My heart dropped as I picked out the shape of a building in front of us.
The road Bastian had taken us on ran along Balmoore’s cliffs, directly across the bay from the Isle d’Eylau.
To my left, the land fell into a steep, chalky drop-off; to my right, though, a series of structures paraded in a neat line.
Their faces were blank stone, completely featureless except for the grand iron gates set into their fronts.
At the sight of them, I felt a spool wind tight within me. “You gave me until my wedding day.”
“And until then, you shall have.” Bastian’s nod did little to relieve the panic which had sprouted in me at the sight of the cloisters. I’d never been so close to them before. How many silkwitches were trapped behind those gates?