Chapter Seven
I did not have time to give the Weaver King my answer for several days.
Whether because he was hoping to annoy me into agreeing to his deal, or out of a great, previously untold love for wedding planning, Bastian filled my schedule to bursting following our conversation in the carriage.
There were invitations to be sent out and flower arrangements to select, musicians to evaluate and food to be tasted.
The third morning after my talk with Marie-Louise—three days closer to my and Noé’s nuptials, and the deadline Bastian had given me—I finally found a moment to pen my reply. My message was short, inked on a sheet of letter paper; still, I did not doubt that the Weaver King would catch my meaning.
I’ll do it.
Folding the note in half, I covered my mirror and dressed.
With autumn approaching, the rains that plagued our capital had grown heavier; already, low-bellied, woolen clouds were clumped along the horizon like knots in a sweater.
Water droplets pounded against my windows as I selected my caul—rose gold, made of delicate chains which clung close to my scalp like a helm—the sky beyond as black as a chimney flue despite the early hour.
Only once I was appropriately attired did I flip the little brass handle by my bedside, which summoned my maid, Mia.
Red-haired and keen-eyed, she was the one I picked out of a lineup of girls presented to me following my engagement once I saw her pinch the rose-cheeked and vastly more personable servant next to her as I passed the two of them by.
Mia’s fingers had retreated as soon as the other girl squealed; her expression, when I’d locked eyes with her following her jab, had been placid enough that I could have sailed across it.
By the way the other maids shifted uneasily around her after the servant’s cry, but refused to out her as the culprit, I understood that she was a pariah amongst her peers—ostracized, perhaps even feared.
I’d known then that I had to have her.
As usual, Mia appeared promptly following my call.
She remained almost completely still as I passed my message to her, motionless except for the occasional comprehending bob of her head at my accompanying instructions.
Once I’d finished speaking, she made to leave, but I held out a hand before she could depart.
My voice was tentative. “Your cousin has not written you?”
At the shake of her head, a stab of displeasure wounded me.
Since our first meeting at the Moreaus’ town house, Eliot had passed several additional missives to me through Mia, writing to her under the guise of an imaginary relation so as not to alert Noé.
It was how I’d known where to find Eliot at the opera house.
Typically, his messages were sporadic—too many would have aroused suspicion—but even so, it had been a while now without one.
I didn’t want to admit it, but I was beginning to feel the lack.
With effort, I pressed my fears down. Eliot would send me a letter soon, and all my anxieties would fade away.
I would fix what was broken between us then.
The rest of the day I spent at my desk, writing down the particulars of Sybil’s death.
Fortblanche had been full the night of her murder—not just with the competing maidens, but the guests Bastian had invited to attend the ball, as well—though Sybil herself had been absent all evening. Had I noticed anyone else acting oddly?
Myself. The realization made me grimace. I’d been gone for much of the dance, absconded with Eliot to an empty room, away from the majority of the action. Any of my fellow silkwitches could have exited the ballroom at some time during the party, and I’d have been none the wiser.
Sighing, I set my fountain pen down. This was useless. The killer could have been anyone—a friend of Sybil’s, an enemy, someone she’d never met. Without more evidence, I had no way of knowing.
I could only hope that Bastian followed through on his promise to provide me with suspects, and soon, or my investigation would be over before it had even begun.
Snick. A sudden noise made my hand slip. Toward the back of my desk, a candle had suddenly burst to life, seemingly of its own accord.
I lifted my head to examine it. The candle was old, melted to little more than a nub, wax dripping in thick rivulets over the gold holder it was set in. Still, its light was strong, its flame shining a bright, Woven white rather than the yellow-orange typical of candle flames.
As I watched, a scroll dropped out of the fire, as if coughed up by the wick itself.
Ophelia’s candle. My hackles rose. Noé and I had not spoken using this method since I’d discovered it was him on the other side of the conduit, toward the end of the Vainglory.
According to him, he’d had the candle—along with the matching one which I’d eventually discovered in his quarters—originally made for his and Ophelia Lear’s use, so they could pass messages to one another without alerting their respective families to their secret relationship.
Once I’d found Ophelia’s candle during the competition, he’d spoken to me the same way.
I’d assumed Bastian had destroyed Noé’s candle once the Vainglory had concluded—though, in hindsight, the fact that he’d never come for mine should have given me some pause.
I’d meant to get rid of the conduit on my own, but the servants had moved it along with the rest of my things when they’d transferred me to my new quarters, and in the process of settling in, I’d just… forgotten.
That seemed a grave mistake now. Reluctantly, I reached forward and unrolled the message which the candle had produced, reading the letters stamped onto it in crisp gray ash.
Bernard tells me you are refusing to join us for dinner again this evening. I sent a very kind request. Shall I be forced to repeat myself?
I set the scroll down. The Weaver King wasn’t the only Alaire who’d been pestering me more than usual since our trip back from the opera house.
Over the past few days, Noé had sent the family’s butler to my room multiple times to issue invitations to join him for meals, or else for a walk in the central cloister garden.
It was obvious that my betrothed wished to discuss the ultimatum his father had given me, but thus far, I’d ignored all his messages.
I hadn’t forgotten how he’d cornered me after I’d come back from my meeting with Eliot at the opera.
He’d almost gotten the better of me in that encounter, and it had left me more shaken than I cared to admit.
Next time the pair of us spoke face-to-face, I wanted to be sure we were meeting on even ground.
That, and I didn’t particularly want to tell him that I’d given Bastian an answer without consulting him.
Tearing a bit of paper from the journal I’d been writing in, I reached for my pen and dashed out a response. Stop goading me. I am not a mouse you can tempt out of its hole.
His answer spat into my hand less than a minute after I’d fed my own to the fire. All creatures may be tempted. It is only a question of finding the right bait.
I rolled my eyes and set the scroll aside. As if sensing that I meant to put off writing back, a second message followed in its wake, knocking against the desktop just as I lowered my pen. Shall I come in and get you?
My hand stiffened. The door will never let you pass.
So certain, his next note said. And yet, it has known me far longer than it has you.
A few seconds after it arrived, another slip of white was thrown from the flame. Enough playing. Come out, come out, Tamerlane.
It was as close to an ultimatum as he’d ever given me. I refused him anyway, undeterred. No.
For a long beat, the flame sat quiet. When his next scroll arrived, I could hear the snarl behind his words. Your choice.
The flame went out. I watched the smoking wick for a moment before turning toward the front of my room, half indignant, half anxious.
Would Noé truly break into my quarters, if I denied him entrance?
It wasn’t a step he’d taken before, though that certainly didn’t mean he wouldn’t do so.
I thought of him lurking outside our opera box when I’d returned from my meeting with Eliot—his eyes on mine, his teeth by my ear.
Since our engagement, I have not touched you once.
My stomach clenched. Eyeing the gilded doorknob, I clutched my fountain pen tighter, testing the sharpness of its nib…
A sudden pulse behind my eyes distracted me. Without warning, I felt my Wit rouse, a vision briefly flashing through my mind: a familiar green door creaking open, then closed again.
My pen dropped to the floor, my magic returning to its resting place, curled tight behind my ribs. He wouldn’t dare.
Rage erupted within me. Standing, I shoved back my chair and then—throwing my own door open—raced from my room.