Chapter Thirty-Six #2
Bashfully, she indicated one of the armchairs, slipping into the other seat herself. The cushions were soft, a rich green velvet like moss, freshly watered. I resisted the urge to groan as I sank down into them.
“Miss Lovett.” I glanced up at the sound of my name. Manon’s expression had grown somber, her fingers plucking anxiously at her caul. “Before our tea arrives, I must apologize to you—sincerely.”
Biting her lip, she buried her face in her hands.
“I’ve thought of our last meeting every day since it occurred.
Cecilia, you cannot believe the guilt I’ve felt over what I did to you—what I attempted to do to you.
I hardly sleep anymore; even when I wake, I feel the memory of it gnawing at me, like a rat curled up in my stomach.
” She dropped her fingers, removing the spectacles she was wearing.
“I am so, so dearly sorry,” she murmured.
Her voice was earnest enough that even if I hadn’t overheard her conversation with Anais, I’d have believed her.
I smirked. “Honestly, Manon, I do not begrudge you for it.” Though I had brought a knife, currently stowed in my boot in case she tried again.
I was growing disconcertingly used to the idea of people trying to kill me.
“Anais told me of the bargain my father-in-law offered you,” I continued, meeting her gaze. “No silkwitch should be made to suffer a life in the cloisters.”
Manon’s brow creased. “But I—”
“I require no apologies,” I said before she could continue. “Truly.” I paused. “What I do need, however, is a favor.
“When you left Bastian Alaire’s estate after being dismissed from the Vainglory, you took something that did not belong to you.” I arched a brow. “A pair of gloves.”
The other silkwitch started. For a moment, I could see her debating whether to deny my accusation. Her nose wrinkled, her face screwing up with consternation.
Finally, she cursed. “Rochefort.”
Her tone was dark—yet my heart leapt at it all the same.
“Marie-Louise is not the one who told me,” I returned levelly.
“My informant is unimportant. What matters is the accuracy of their statement.” Crossing my arms, I assessed her.
“Judging by your reaction, I’d say they were telling the truth.
You did steal the gloves. Would you care to explain why? ”
Manon’s cheeks colored. “I didn’t intend to steal them,” she said defensively.
“I found them, with my Wit.” Her eyes skated past mine, turning downward toward her lap.
“You know the nature of my gift—I have the ability to smell hidden things. I first scented the gloves the morning after the Midway Ball, though I didn’t realize that was what they were at the time.
Someone had stowed them inside a vase near the ballroom.
I noticed them in particular because there was a powerful aroma of secrecy coming off them—as if the person who had put them there desperately did not want them to be found. ”
A vase. That was curious. Anais claimed to have left them in the billiards room. Had someone moved them? “And yet you took them regardless,” I prompted when she dropped off. “Why? Did you mean to return them to Anais?”
Manon’s brow creased. “Ani?” she echoed. “No. I—well, if you must know, I was hoping to find out who’d hidden them. I thought if I did, I might be able to use the items as a kind of…encouragement. To ensure they played fair with me in the competition, you see.”
My lips twitched. “As leverage, you mean,” I said. “Impressive.”
And also unexpected, considering it was Anais who had lost the gloves—and made rather a fuss about it in the days following the ball. If Manon had recovered them, why hadn’t she given them back to her beloved?
Clearing my throat, I asked, “Will you show them to me?”
Manon hesitated.
Noting her reticence, I pressed, “You mentioned a rat in your stomach. Aiding me might help to kill it.”
The suggestion seemed to provide the final push she needed. Lips pursed, Manon stood up, crossing to the bay window and the window seat fitted beneath. She dug beneath the cushion for a moment, then pulled her arm back.
Drooped over her fingers were a pair of gloves. They were silk, dyed the light spring green of budding clovers. Upon a closer look, I saw that one of them had a tear in it—a rip which began between the thumb and forefinger and extended for several inches.
But…I frowned. “These are not Anais’s.”
Manon’s brow furrowed. I accepted the gloves when she extended them toward me, running my fingers over the fabric.
Was it possible that I was mistaken? And yet, I could hear Marie-Louise’s voice in my head so clearly, back when she’d first told me about Anais and the missing accessories.
She had quite a nice pair—white silk, reaching just above her elbows.
White silk, the Owl had said. But the gloves I held in my hands were green.
“Of course they don’t belong to Ani,” Manon said matter-of-factly. “Is that why you brought her up? I’d have given them to her if they did—her mother stitches her name on the inside of hers, anyhow. She’s been doing it for her since she was a child.”
I regarded the unfamiliar accessories for a second longer before closing my hand over them.
“Is that so?” I asked. “I suppose I was mistaken. It is only that I’d heard Miss Tremblay also lost a pair of gloves during the competition, and assumed the ones you found and the ones she was missing were the same. ”
Manon’s eyes narrowed. I was not sure if it was my explanation she was suspicious of, or my interest in Anais. I hurried on before she could vocalize either.
“You know,” I said, “after you tried to kill me, Anais bargained for you. She told me of the offer Bastian made to you and the rest of my bridesmaids, but in exchange she asked that I forgive your attempt on my life. That I refrain from pursuing any sort of justice against you.”
My words had the desired effect. Manon’s expression slackened, her cheeks flushing with pink. “Why would she do that?”
“You’d have to ask her yourself,” I replied.
“But I needed that information—about the ultimatum Bastian gave you—badly. She could have asked for almost anything in return for it, and I would have acquiesced, but she decided to aid you instead.” Pausing, I inclined my head. “I merely thought you should know.”
The other silkwitch fell silent. She did not request the stolen gloves back as I turned and made my way toward the door, though I felt her gaze linger on me, steady and pensive, as I exited.
Back in my carriage, I peeled back the lip of one glove, then the other. There was nothing stitched on the fabric inside—no name, nothing indicating their original owner. Whoever these belonged to, that person was obviously not Anais Tremblay. Which begged the question…
If they weren’t hers, whose were they?