Chapter Forty
I sprinted back to the dining table, Noé close behind me.
The area was all but empty when I arrived.
Every chair but one had been pushed back, wineglasses and plates of food scattered randomly about.
Anais, the corridor’s sole remaining occupant, stood as Noé and I entered.
I noticed that unlike the rest of the drinks which littered the table, her cup appeared freshly filled; a bottle stood next to it, ready to replenish its offerings whenever they ran low.
Her gaze flicked to mine through the quiet. “Where have you—”
I cut her off. “Where has everyone gone?”
She blinked. “How am I to know?” she asked in an irritated tone. “The pair of you were absent for ages. People assumed the meal was over—Adélard said he needed to speak with Mr. Alaire, but I wanted to wait.” Crossing her arms, she frowned at me. “Shall we go fetch my gloves?”
I didn’t bother informing her that the gloves in question were likely being fetched by someone else.
Dammit. With nearly my entire bridal party absent, it was impossible to judge which of them had accessed the door that had alerted me just now—or how they’d known the gloves’ real hiding spot, rather than the false location I’d supplied.
Which meant if I wanted to identify the person who’d entered the turret room, I would have to catch them before they left.
Turning, I touched Noé’s shoulder. “I’ll be back.”
His fingers caught my wrist. “I don’t suppose you’ve any desire to tell me what’s got you in such a rush?”
There was no time. With every second that passed, I feared I’d feel another tug on my Wit as the turret door opened again, signaling my target’s escape. “Later,” I replied.
Leaving him and Anais behind, I raced through the house. The door to the turret room was shut tight when I arrived. Taking the knob in hand, I knocked—sharply, once.
“Eliot?” Is it him that I sensed? Perhaps he wished to talk.
There was no answer. From the other side of the threshold, I heard a sudden scurrying noise, as if I’d startled someone who was not expecting to be disturbed.
My stomach dropped. Not Eliot, then.
Emboldened, I unleashed my Wit and turned the knob. There was a click as the lock undid itself, but when I went to push the door open, it refused to budge.
Grunting, I tried again, flexing my magic.
The door shuddered, creaking half an inch inward—then stuck.
Peering through the crack, I saw that an object had been shoved in front of it, preventing the entrance from fully opening.
One of the space’s two armchairs, from the looks of it.
Its tall back was pressed up against the wood like a soldier, guarding the room from view.
Another flurry of footsteps issued from beyond it.
What was their owner doing? The turret room had only a single entrance—the very same one which I was currently positioned in front of.
The chamber featured a window as well, but we were so high up, several stories above the cliffside.
Surely, no one would risk an escape via that route…
Suddenly, I thought of Delphine Barbier, swooping down at me in the form of a raven, and revised my thought. Maybe some would. Depending on the silkwitch, maybe they could.
My resolve strengthened. Drawing a breath, I focused on my Wit, urging my magic forward. Then I laid my shoulder against the door and shoved.
The armchair flew back as if pulled by a string, colliding with the far wall. There was a shriek—high, girlish—from the person within the room as I threw open the entrance and burst in.
All was dark. In the dimness, I could see that the chamber had been ransacked: The second armchair was tipped over near the place where I stood, and several books which I’d left in the room earlier were lying upside down on the floor.
My heart dropped as I noticed that the chair’s seat cushion, which I’d stowed the gloves beneath, had been removed and hurled across the room.
The accessories I’d hidden there were gone.
But where was the person who’d stolen them?
As if in answer, a force shoved me hard from behind. I fell to my hands and knees, crying out as a large object toppled against my back, flattening me face down on the ground. The other armchair. The glove thief had pushed it on top of me.
Grunting, I tried to flip onto my stomach and lift it up, but the chair was heavy—twice my weight, at least. Its wooden frame was like an anchor, pinning me to the floor. I couldn’t move—couldn’t even turn my head to see my attacker.
I was trapped.
The person behind me seemed to realize it in the same moment I did. They’d been moving backward toward the door—but now, without warning, they paused. I felt their presence draw nearer, their steps slow and wary, like a scavenger waiting for its prey to die.
Desperate, I called out to them. “Who are you?”
Silence answered me. Cold sweat beaded along my neck as, seconds later, I heard them take another deliberate step in my direction.
I closed my eyes. “Please,” I said, and then uttered the words which I’d refused to speak since my uncle cut off my hair all those years ago. “Please don’t hurt me.”
This time, there was a response. The person laughed.
My gut went cold. My mind reached for something—a pleasant memory—anything to comfort me as I waited to be killed.
Then: a shriek, followed by a panicked peeping noise. I startled as something—a small body?—thumped against the wall. In the wake of the sound, my attacker retreated, their footsteps hurrying out of the chamber and down the turret stairs.
Quiet returned. I breathed a sigh of relief as a second later, a damp pink nose nudged against my face.
“Good Sister,” I murmured. The mouse must have been the cause of the shriek I’d heard.
I could picture her, sinking her dainty teeth into my attacker’s calf.
She saved me. “Can you fetch your mistress?”
The creature nuzzled me as if in confirmation. She remained by my side for a moment longer, her plump body warming mine, before she, too, darted away, and I was left to the silence and the dark.