Chapter Two #3
Ignoring me, he went on. “Sorcerers’ magic is not inherent to them, as they claim,” Eliot explained without looking at me.
“There is a reason our gifts never manifest before adulthood—around the same time silkwitches’ Wits begin to die out.
Our power is stolen from girls like Miss Lovett’s kind.
There is a binding ritual within Weaver marriage ceremonies: The bride swears on the first piece of magesilk Woven from her hair.
She thinks it is an oath of devotion, but in actuality, she is tying her magic to her husband. ”
Lucie frowned. I couldn’t tell whether she believed his confession or not—she appeared intrigued, but skeptical. “I have met Weavers, including your father,” she replied to Eliot. “I have witnessed their abilities firsthand. They are vastly more powerful than silkwitches’ Wits.”
“The magic grows with age, and practice. It is one of the reasons witches must marry young, before their gifts have fully matured,” Eliot responded.
“If they were aware of the truth, many girls would likely find that they were able to extend the boundaries of their Wits, even prior to marrying age. But society tells them—enforces, really—the belief that their Wits are no more than a single, relatively limited, trick. That their only true magical value is the raw power contained in the hair they give to their husbands.” He shrugged.
“If a person is told there is only one exit in a house, they do not often spend time searching for hidden passageways.”
Lucie hummed. “Then, you,” she said, turning in my direction. “You know—as Mr. Lear puts it—the truth. What can you do?”
I flushed. It was a sore subject.
“The scope of my abilities has thus far remained unchanged,” I admitted reluctantly.
The Councillor clucked her tongue. “So you have a pretty story, but no proof.”
“The pair of us are proof enough.” Eliot sat forward, brow creasing. “I am past twenty, and still, my magic has yet to appear. What is that, if not evidence that we are speaking the truth?”
“Delayed development. A late bloomer, as they say.” Lucie lifted a shoulder, her manner noncommittal. “Many sorcerers do not come into their magic until they are fully grown, well into their late twenties.”
“You doubt us?” Eliot’s voice hardened.
“I am not saying that,” Lucie replied in a mild tone. “I am saying your argument has holes.”
“You are a politician.” Breaking in, I met her gaze. “Can you not help us to patch them?”
“Certainly, I could,” she answered calmly. “If I wished to.”
She lapsed into silence. I stiffened as, for the first time in the course of our conversation, her stare fell to my left hand, resting on the cushioned arm of my seat.
In the dimness, the black agate stone which crowned my engagement ring was nearly invisible, the sharp edges of its marquise cut like a dark eye in the murk.
“Tell me—how does your fiancé feel about all this, Miss Lovett?” Lucie asked. “Does he know you are here tonight, speaking with me?”
My stomach dropped. I resisted the urge to curl my knuckles inward, hide the gem from view. “He knows what he needs to,” I replied in a frosty tone. “Which, for the moment, is nothing at all.”
“So you wear his ring, and yet you deceive him. As your prospective partner, your duplicity concerns me.” Her gaze cut to Eliot. “Mr. Lear. Tell me: Does your friend stand by her allies?”
The entire suite seemed to focus on him. Eliot, too, appeared dismayed by the sight of my ring; he blinked at it once, as if rousing himself, then blinked again.
Several seconds went by before, at last, he replied. “Yes,” he answered. “Of course.”
My throat felt tight. His words were firm, but his voice was weak, less sure than it should have been. It felt like a blow to my chest.
Her point made, Lucie settled back in her seat.
“Politics, as Mr. Lear well knows, is a game of image. The Weaver lines—particularly the Alaire lineage—are disliked by many in our nation, but they are also familiar, understood. Their regulations have ensured that a steady, if limited, supply of enchanted goods reaches the public—items which are, as you know, both a highly valued and valuable commodity. If I am to go up against Bastian, I require a good girl. A model witch, who will endear people to her cause rather than scare them away.” Turning toward Eliot, she asked, “Can you tame her?”
Indignation lashed me. Unthinking, I stood. “I do not require taming.”
“Cecilia.” It took a moment for me to register my false name—another to recover from the harsh snap of Eliot’s rebuke. To Lucie he replied, “I can teach her to be what you need.”
The Councillor seemed to consider his response. I stiffened as, slowly, she rose from her seat, shifting in the darkness of the opera box to face me.
“Cecilia Lovett,” she mused, studying me. “My daughter wrote me about you, you know, during the Vainglory. Many of the other girls made partnerships throughout the competition—friends, some—but Sybil claimed that you had none.” Her eyes met mine again, canny and cold. “Why is that?”
I wasn’t certain what she wanted me to say. Abruptly, I felt unmoored, my footing in the conversation uneven. “Perhaps it was they who avoided me.”
Lucie tilted her head. “And what does that tell you?”
Brushing the skirt of her gown, she addressed Eliot. “I’ll consider your proposal. Goodbye, children.”
She vanished into the darkness. Distantly, I heard the door to the box open as she let herself out—and, a moment later, the definite snick as she shut it again.