Chapter Nine #2
I glanced up. “What about it?”
There was an insinuating quality to his expression which I didn’t like. “Didn’t you say it went sour?”
My defenses raised. “Eliot never laid a hand on her.”
“I’m not implying that he did.” Noé’s counter was smooth. “I highly doubt he would ever lay a hand on anyone, in fact.”
“Then why bring up his name at all?”
“Because it is relevant to our discussion,” Noé snapped. “Because he had a relationship with Sybil, and whether he was the one to kill her or not, that may lead us somewhere.” Breaking off, he rubbed at his temple. “Sisters, Tamerlane. Must we be enemies?”
My temper settled. His tone was frustrated, but weary; we were back on level ground. “Absolutely,” I said, turning my attention to the guest list again. “I loathe you.”
He laughed, short and harsh. “You loathe yourself, for choosing me over Eliot Lear.”
“Your constant assumptions about me and the nature of my thoughts are one of the things I loathe most about you,” I replied without lifting my gaze from the paper in front of me. “What about Eliot’s father, Reginald?”
“Absent. Parliament was in session.” Noé supplied the information without hesitating. A beat passed in silence before he went on. “You are quite hateable yourself, you know.”
His voice had dropped. I tightened my grip on the guest list but otherwise held my position. “I am perfectly aware of the fact,” I said. “Most people in my life hate me.”
Another laugh. “I don’t think many people know you well enough to hate you as I do,” Noé responded. “I hate you very specifically.”
It was too blatant an insult to ignore. Giving in, I looked up at him, lording over me from his armchair. “Do go on.”
He tipped his chin down. “Well, I detest your obstinance, which is the reason we’ve gotten into this mess.”
Was that all he had? “My obstinance is vastly preferable to your indolence.”
“Yet I would gladly suffer both over your needling.” Noé shifted nearer, his elbow on the armrest of his chair. “You pick at those around you like a vulture. I am not even certain whether you see people, or only sad collections of flaws.”
“In your case, it is the latter.” I raised myself up on my knees. “You are a man with the self-indulgent meanness of a child. You do what you want—you say what you want—without a smidgen of care for those around you.”
“I speak honestly,” Noé rebutted. His gaze seared into mine, our eyes leveled. “I am true to myself, unlike you. You shy away from your best qualities because you are frightened that Eliot will hate you for them.”
I had to hold back a scoff. “And what are my best qualities?”
Noé did not falter. “You are duplicitous, and prying, and downright vindictive.”
My skin went hot with rage. Without thinking, I stretched an arm across him, toward the book which he’d balanced on the opposite armrest upon my entrance into the library. It was old, bound in bottle-green leather, a ribbon slipped between the pages to mark his spot.
I shoved it to the floor. The tome hit the ground with a thunk, splaying open as if wounded.
“Sisters!” Noé’s voice rose—he sounded truly angry. Standing, he swept the book up protectively and tucked it beneath his arm. “Tamerlane, this is a first edition.”
The intensity of his ire surprised me. I felt a curl of guilt but brushed it quickly away. “Have your father buy you a new one.”
“There are only so many in existence to buy!” Again, his volume pitched higher.
I half wondered whether, had it not clearly been of such value to him, he’d have hurled the book across the room.
“That is what makes it a first edition.” Stopping short, he turned away, tugging on his curls. “You are—you are impossible.”
Oddly, the jab provided me a measure of relief. “Agreed,” I said, rising. “We are obviously ill-suited to one another. Attempting to collaborate will only hinder our progress toward finding Sybil’s murderer. I suggest we work on the matter separately and reconvene at a later date.”
I could just make out the edge of Noé’s smile, dimpling his cheek. “Oh no,” he replied icily. “We are doing this together.” Exhaling, he shifted to face me once more. “Drink your coffee, Tamerlane. We have much to discuss.”
—
Our session ended as poorly as it had begun.
In the evening, Mia found me examining my reflection in my bedroom mirror, Eliot’s coin held out in my palm.
After our guest list discovery, Noé and I had unearthed no other clues in the mystery of Sybil’s death.
We’d stalked out of the library an hour later, both of us grouchier than we’d been before.
Now I snapped my fingers over the coin as Mia entered. “Did you find anything?” I asked, not bothering with a greeting.
My maid shook her head. She was dressed in the dark uniform of all Alaire staff, her auburn hair neatly combed and braided. “Not a thing, miss,” she answered. “Lucille said they cleaned the maidens’ quarters straightaway after the competition. Those rooms were as bare as bone.”
I frowned. Lucille was another maid—and from what I’d witnessed, deathly afraid of Mia.
She would not lie, a fact which made my own servant’s information even more disappointing.
Aside from the moniker on the guest list, Marie-Louise’s hint about Anais’s missing gloves was the only one I had; it did not bode well that, already, one of the two leads I’d gathered was running thin.
As if in recompense, Mia lifted the small silver plate she held in her left hand higher. A single letter rested in its center: a blood-red envelope sealed with a daub of wax. “Your correspondence, miss.”
I accepted the offering, along with the accompanying letter opener, sliding the latter’s long metal tooth beneath the envelope’s lip.
“There was a note…” Mia’s voice interrupted me as I teased the letter from its sleeve. As soon as I glimpsed the spidering handwriting crawling along the top of the paper, my mind emptied, my thoughts flashing white with alarm.
Brusquely, I dropped the letter back on its plate. “Take this one away,” I ordered. “If any more like it come, burn them.”
To her credit, my maid did not question my reaction, only nodded, her lips pressing together as though registering her mistake. “I was only going to say, miss,” she added hesitantly. “I’ve had a note from my cousin this afternoon.”
My heart leapt as she pulled a second letter from the pocket of her uniform—this one plain, unremarkable compared to the first. Eliot. At last, he’d written.
The speed with which I snatched the envelope from her was almost embarrassing.
The paper was cheap, selected to avoid attracting attention; inside it, the envelope was empty except for a newspaper clipping.
An engagement announcement for one Miss Elspeth Winn, celebrating her betrothal to Sylvain Hugo of the Hugo Weaver line.
On the back of the clipping was a message.
Meet me at the party. Formal dress. Urgent.
The accompanying announcement provided the rest of the details.
In three evenings’ time, apparently, the Winn family would be hosting a ball at their townhome to celebrate their daughter’s upcoming union.
Plenty of time to prepare, except for the fact that regardless of the occasion, I was certain Bastian would not allow me out of the house unaccompanied. Not unless…
The realization settled over me like a weight. Reluctantly, I glanced toward the candle still sitting on my desktop—unlit since Noé had written to me the day prior. Soot clung to the top of the diminishing wax pillar, dirt on a dog’s muzzle.
I knew what I had to do.