Chapter Five #2
“It implies nothing. Stop poking around in her head.” From beside me, Noé interjected, his tone irritable.
“Why should Miss Lovett have any goodwill toward you, Father? You actively antagonized her during the Vainglory, and since then, you have done nothing but slink around like a grinning cat, delighting every time she balks. You certainly have not been very”—he curled his fingers into quotes—“familial.”
All of this, he spoke without straightening, slouched in his seat like a drunk hauled from the gutter. Holding the rest of myself still, I let my gaze slide reproachfully over to him. Why must he always be so petulant? We truly were ill-suited as allies; even his aid was abrasive to me.
“Fine, fine.” Surprising me, the Weaver King obliged. The pressure in my mind briefly relaxed as, exhaling, he went on. “I must apologize for my son’s impropriety. Truly, how can you love a boy like him?”
I gave him as honest an answer as I could muster. “I appreciate his directness.”
The Weaver King made a low, contemplative noise. “And you, Noé?” he asked, switching targets. “What is it that you appreciate about Miss Lovett here?”
My fiancé snorted. “Father, you know I find her the most fascinating creature I have ever encountered.”
His voice was so purely sarcastic, it prickled like vinegar on my tongue. I held my breath, trying viciously to quench the hatred I could feel rising in my gullet before his father could catch on to it, but Bastian seemed mollified by the remark.
“Well,” he replied neutrally, “that is good to hear. Because—I bring news!” He clapped his hands together. “I have set a date for your wedding.”
Quiet blanketed the coach. I did not dare to glance over at Noé, though I could feel his panic vibrating through me as surely as my own. There was a tension in the atmosphere, as though something had just been set into motion.
Slowly, my fiancé peeled himself away from his seat-back. His expression was flat; he seemed suddenly sober. Scoffing, he gave a curt shake of his head. “Go on,” he urged. “When are we to wed?”
The Weaver King smiled innocently at his son’s prompting. “The ceremony shall be held three weeks from today,” he supplied, glancing over at me. “If, that is, we can resolve the matter of your bride’s dower.”
My stomach plunged. To my side, Noé asked in a testing tone, “What dower?”
Bastian clucked his tongue. “Yes, that is the problem, isn’t it? Since, for all her merits, the charming Miss Lovett has no dower. It seems that Eliot Lear was not generous enough to furnish her with one.” His mouth quirked upward. “Isn’t that right, dear?”
I said nothing. It was true; when I’d arrived at Fortblanche for the start of the Alaires’ competition, I’d come without the usual stockpile of shed hair which most silkwitches presented to their husbands as a bridal gift—an offering colloquially termed a dower.
Having abandoned any aspirations of finding a Weaver man to marry prior to Eliot’s seeking me out, I’d tossed the paltry supply I’d managed to collect months ago.
Eliot had chastised me over the lack initially, yet as the Vainglory had spun on, as maiden after maiden had been dismissed while I remained, the threat had seemed to wane.
I’d worried briefly, after my betrothal had been announced, whether Bastian would make a fuss over the missing hair—but the Weaver King had stayed silent, and I’d assumed the absence had gone either unnoticed or unremarked on.
That seemed a fool’s mistake now. How had I not realized that there was a third explanation for Bastian’s permissiveness: that he was not ignorant of my vulnerability, nor uncaring, but rather simply biding his time until he could turn it against me?
Noé appeared to be coming to the same realization I was.
Leaning forward, he placed his elbows on his knees, his expression drawn.
“Miss Lovett does not require a dower, Father,” he said before I could fashion a reply.
“She is the Vainglory’s victor—according to the stipulations you laid out, she has earned the right to be my bride. ”
On the opposite side of the carriage, Bastian interlaced his fingers.
The sight of the Weaver King and his son contrasted against one another was uncanny—like two paintings of the same man, aged twenty years apart.
“Yes, so I initially assumed as well,” he replied.
“At least, until I conducted further investigation.”
He tsked as Noé stiffened.
“Do not direct those vengeful glares of yours my way, son,” Bastian chided.
“If you heeded your studies as I have always encouraged you to do, you would be familiar with the requirement of which I speak. Paragraph thirty-four, the eighth clause of the marriage accords: If a prospective silkwitch bride is unable to provide her betrothed with recompense equal to the cost of her keeping, his family is free to reject her suit.”
“I love her.” Noé broke in as soon as his father fell silent, his voice whipping through the compact coach interior. He lied with ferocity; the smoothness of it astounded me. “I chose her. That should be enough.”
“You did choose her,” Bastian replied. “In place of the candidate I recommended—who did, I believe, have a dower.”