Chapter Eight #3
A stone lodged in my throat. It was precisely the plan which Eliot had proposed.
“Your mistrust wounds me,” I replied carefully.
There was no real point in denying him—not when he’d already guessed at so much of the truth himself—but even so, I was hesitant to expose the specifics of our plan with Lucie unless I had to.
It was a novice mistake, to whip the curtain back when your opponent has only glimpsed the barest sliver of the window beyond.
“I only have one strategy, dear, and it is the one I formed with you.”
“Oh?” Noé smirked. “How charmingly loyal. I’m touched.”
He placed his cigarette between his lips.
“You misunderstand me, Tamerlane. I don’t mind you plotting with Lear, but I do care if his scheming interferes with our own.
In his mind, the world is a fruit, split down its middle—there are only ever two halves to a problem.
Lucie is against the Weavers, so by his logic, she must be for you.
” Shaking his head, he lowered his cigarette.
“Good versus evil,” Noé continued, peering down at the smoke trailing from it.
“It is all that matters to him. He will do anything to be on the right side of that line.”
Silence descended for a moment. When it passed, he looked back up at me.
“I don’t know the particulars of your arrangement with Lucie, but you’d do well to be aware that she is far from the moral champion Eliot believes,” Noé said.
“The woman is a politician, first and foremost. When the time comes, she will stand with those whose interests align with hers, no matter the purity of their cause. In any other circumstances, I would let Lear learn that lesson on his own, but he is tied to you—and you are tied to me. I cannot afford to risk him pulling you down and wasting all the effort I expended to crown you my victor.”
His words chafed at me. “Perhaps you do not understand him as well as you believe.”
Noé laughed. “I understand him better than anyone alive,” he said. “Including you.”
I stiffened. “He loves me.”
“Maybe he does,” Noé admitted. “But you are now connected to me. And for that, he will grow to despise you, too.” Shaking his head, he gave a bitter half shrug. “It is his way.”
My heart twisted. “You are wrong.”
There was a tremble in my voice. I could hear it, echoing off the turret walls, and it felt like a confession—like he’d pressed on a bruise.
At my rebuke, we both went still. Noé had moved away from the window as he’d been speaking; he stood, frozen in the center of the room, his hand splayed as if locked in the midst of a debate.
His lips pressed together. I felt his pity approaching, the cool drop of a shadow signaling a presence behind, and I could not bear to face it. I would not.
I hefted my sword. “Do you think yourself clever?” I spat. “Luring me up here—needling me? Do you think it gives you power over me?”
Without thinking, I drew nearer to him. The movement was necessary, somehow, as if with every meter I approached, I shoved my own falter further off.
“You claim to understand Eliot, but you do not yet know me,” I hissed.
“You and I share a common goal: revenge against your father. That is the extent of our partnership. The moment your needs no longer suit mine…” I let my words drop, then picked them up again.
“I left the side of the only boy I have ever loved because you offered me a better bargain. You believe Lucie Dabos is immoral—what do you think a girl like me would do to you, someone I detest?”
Noé’s eyes were dark. He hadn’t retreated at my advance, only tilted his head down to better observe me. “What would you do to me, Tamerlane?”
I raised myself up on my toes. “I would come into your room at night, when you thought yourself safe,” I whispered. “I would climb into your bed. And I would kill you while you slept.”
His throat bobbed. We were so close now, chest to chest—it would have been intimate, if not for the loathing radiating between us.
I arched a brow. “Do you doubt me?”
A beat passed in silence, his gaze flicking over mine. Finally, Noé spoke. “Not in the slightest.”
The tension between us dissipated. I twisted away, satisfied—only to stop short as his hand came over my wrist.
“One moment, dear,” Noé murmured. “You accuse me of wanting a partnership, yet ours is no equal bargain. You have power over doors, yes—but I hold power in this house.”
I resisted as he drew me back toward him.
“Tomorrow,” he said, his features hardening. “We start our search for Sybil’s killer—or you may find that your visits with my friend are suddenly…restricted.”
Our stares locked. Dropping my arm, Noé broke the connection, starting roughly toward the door.
“If you are to lie to me, try harder next time,” he called as he took the doorknob in hand. His voice was harsh—there was no elegance in this departure, only a mutual, borderless anger. “Your lack of effort is insulting.”
The door clicked behind him as he left. I felt, illogically, as though it were on his side.