Chapter Fifty-Six
The island was silent when I arrived, a sharp jag of rock poking up from the ocean, white stone against a graveyard sky.
Mist trailed from the waves. Beneath me, rotting planks groaned as I stepped out of the rowboat and onto the island’s ancient dock, weathered and salt-stained from years of neglect.
Aside from a flock of seabirds huddled, skeletal and keen-eyed, on the gray pebbled beach to my side, there were no other living creatures nearby—but still, a second boat bobbed across from mine, tied to the opposite dock post.
I rubbed at my arms. I’d come to the right place.
The directions I’d procured from Clio Lavoie had taken me nearly a full day’s carriage ride up the coast of Balmoore—a desolate stretch of shoreline dotted with craggy isles like crumbs off a crust of bread.
Centuries ago, before our nation had unified, local lords had erected seaside outposts in this area, though the vast majority had long since been abandoned.
Now only their carcasses remained: crumbling stone ruins, dark pillars overlooking the gray ocean beneath.
One had been built here. Looking up, I could see it, squatting at the highest point of the island. Time had reduced the structure to little more than a heap of rocks, moss-coated and near shapeless, but by the size alone I could tell it once must have been grand.
A set of stairs carved into the isle’s rocky face led up to the fortress, nearly as steep as the cliffs themselves. They were the sole other man-made feature on the island—besides them and the building itself, there was nothing except a few scraggly trees.
There were no mirrors for the Owl to peer through here. No doors—not even any arches.
I could see why the Weaver King had come.
When I reached the fortress, I circled it warily, clutching my weapon in my hand. I’d taken Clio’s pistol from her room before I’d left. The weapon was cool against my skin, complacent, as if it had not fired the shot that had very nearly cost my husband his life.
The entrance to the fortress had long since collapsed, reduced to little more than a pile of lichen-dressed rubble.
Its west-facing wall, though, was open—the stone had fallen away almost entirely, exposing the building’s interior to the elements.
Beyond it was a wide courtyard, green with moss, studded with heaps of rock.
At the center of it stood a man. He was facing away from me, his head tilted back to peer up at the sky—but as I approached, he called out.
“Is that you, Miss Lovett?”
I drew another pace nearer. Bastian turned at the sound of pebbles clacking beneath my boots, his eyes finding mine across the ruins.
Despite the setting, he was dressed formally in a black evening suit, his ascot hanging loose around his collar.
In his right hand, he held a cane, metal-tipped, its end molded into the shape of a rabbit’s head.
Its beady gaze drove into me as I regarded him. “You couldn’t have picked a more accessible place to meet with me?” I asked.
Bastian smiled. “It is very hard to find a room without doors,” he said.
“Especially on such short notice. And I certainly didn’t want you sneaking up on me without my awareness.
” He swung the cane back and forth lightly, as if in demonstration, then set it down again.
“I assume Miss Lavoie told you where to find me.”
I did not deny it. “You wanted me to go to her,” I replied evenly. “You’ve been hoping I’d come after you. Otherwise, you would not have let her live.”
“You make it all sound so mercenary, my dear. Not everything is a strategy. I simply wished to speak with you one last time.” Bastian’s features softened.
His gaze fell to the gun in my hand, lingered.
I doubted he was surprised by the weapon; the question was: Where was his? “Father and daughter, reunited.”
Revulsion curled in me. “You did everything in your power to keep me from earning that title.”
Bastian shrugged. “A man thrown into a wolf pit must defend himself against the creature,” he replied mildly. “It does not mean he cannot appreciate the beast.” He paused. “It doesn’t mean he does not care.”
His voice was low. I had to steel myself as he raised his stare to mine again—his expression remorseful, almost sad.
But then I recalled him watching me from the bar on my wedding night, a grin on his lips as Eliot spoke my true name for everyone to hear, and any measure of sympathy I had for him dried out.
The Weaver King was an expert hunter. He respected his prey—admired it, even.
But still, he attacked.
Clearing his throat, Bastian went on. “I do apologize for Eliot Lear. He was a tool I had to use—but I really did not think he would turn on you so easily.”
Why work with Bastian at all?
Why? To protect you, Lovett. To help you. Why else do I ever do anything?
I flinched at the onslaught of memories which surged against my skull.
“He believed he was doing it to defend me,” I answered a moment later.
At Bastian’s arched brow, I added, “If I hadn’t escaped after the wedding—if your scheme had worked as you intended.
Would you truly have let him run off with me? ”
It was the one part of Eliot’s explanation I’d doubted when he’d first told it to me. Exposing my identity to Balmoore’s high society made sense—pinning the blame for Sybil’s murder on me made sense. But doing all that and allowing me to be whisked away, unharmed…
It felt like a loose end. And the man I’d come to know did not leave those.
Sure enough, Bastian sighed. “Perhaps,” he replied. “Perhaps not. I hadn’t decided.”
His attention drifted, his gaze fogging over once more. Maybe it was just the setting, but he seemed grayer than when I’d last seen him—diminished, as if in the days we’d spent apart, age had finally begun to catch up with him.
“You know, when I was a boy, I used to crush moths which landed too close to me,” he resumed abruptly after a beat had passed. “It was my instinct. And yet I felt so guilty once they were gone.”
His mouth twitched. I tracked the motion, then spoke. “First I was a wolf; now I am a moth. What are you?”
Bastian chuckled. “I am the old racehorse,” he replied grimly. “And I sense my first loss is near.” Inhaling, he angled himself back toward me. “You may ask me, you know.” His tone was prompting.
Instinctively, I tightened my grip on the pistol. “When did you sense it?” I asked. I did not clarify beyond that—I knew he’d understand what I meant.
Sure enough, Bastian smirked. “That you truly meant to kill me?” he asked.
“That it was not merely some scheme you were indulging my son in—that you’d made up your mind?
” He waved a hand. “Oh, after we talked, when you came to my study to announce that you’d found Miss Dabos’s murderer.
Though, in the name of honesty, I’ll admit I agreed to her mother’s deal prior to that.
I assume Eliot Lear filled you in on the particulars. ”
He had. I lifted the pistol. “And if I’d felt differently,” I said. “If I had agreed to work with you, rather than against you. Would you have betrayed me anyway?”
I didn’t understand why I was so desperate to know. If I’d learned anything in the time since I’d met him, it was that everything Bastian Alaire said was a lie. He was like a beetle in its carapace, closed to the outside world. The only truths he told were ones he spoke to himself.
And yet, I couldn’t forget the question he’d posed to me: Do you want a cause…or do you want a family? The uncertainty which had plagued me just afterward, when I thought he might truly mean to make me his daughter.
The Weaver King was not my family. But the way he thought, the way he was…
Sometimes it felt like I was a lonely animal, and he was a creature of my own kind.
Bastian’s features turned sorrowful. He did not seem all too concerned with the gun currently leveled at his head, though I was sure with his gift, he could sense that I intended to use it.
“I like to think not,” he answered to my surprise a minute later.
“I like to imagine there was a future where you and I could have stood together. I dashed it, but still, it exists—like an echo on the wind.”
His throat bobbed. Then he drew a breath, and all fell back into order.
“What is your father’s name, Miss Lovett?”
I blinked but did not lower my pistol. “Eben.”
“Eben.” Bastian repeated the name, as if examining the feel of it on his tongue.
“Mine was named Alder. We never got along—when I was growing up, I used to think he despised me. It was only after I married my wife and gained her power that I realized that it was not hatred he felt toward me at all, but fear. My birth signaled his end.”
Bastian’s hand drifted toward the ring on his left finger: Mariéprix, glinting wickedly in the twilight.
“The first time I put on my seal, I felt like a god,” he said.
“To parse the thoughts of men, to see their secret desires—it was, I thought then, the gift of a deity.
But I have realized now that power makes you its soldier.
You bind yourself to it, and then all your life you must defend it.
You kill for it. You lie for it. A lucky few die with it in their grasp, but still it flees before their corpses have grown cold.
The only way to keep it for oneself is to make a new body—to mold, while you are still alive, an heir, to live for you once you are gone.
“Since he was young, I knew that man would never be Noé—not truly,” Bastian continued. “I thought, for a while, Eliot Lear could fill the role in his stead, but I was wrong there, as well.” His eyes found mine, focused. “All along, the son I was searching for was you.”
I stiffened. “I could never follow you.”
Bastian only smiled. “Sons do not follow their fathers,” he replied. “Sons usurp them.”