Chapter Seventeen
To his credit, Noé obeyed my rules upon returning to my room for the night. Aside from a brief exchange as we climbed into bed—he took the left side, I, the far, far right—we did not talk nor touch.
Still, I slept poorly.
I woke to the sound of rainfall tapping against my windowpanes.
My bedroom was washed in blue morning light, a cozy, dry pocket amidst the drizzle which haloed it.
Beside me, Noé was still slumbering. He appeared deep in repose, one arm tucked behind his pillow, the other sprawled across the center of the mattress, as if reaching toward the place where I’d lain.
His mouth gapped partially open; I could see the gentle rise and fall of his chest with each inhale he drew, the sight oddly endearing. Elegant, even.
Reaching over, I thwacked him hard with my pillow. “Get up.”
He gasped awake. When he whipped his hand out from beneath his pillow, I was startled to see there was something clenched in it: a small metal blade, no bigger than a pocketknife but wickedly sharp, glinting in the daylight.
I scowled at him. “You sleep with a knife? Have you lost your mind?”
He returned my frown, his shoulders sagging as he registered my presence. “You have potentially eight witches after you, and yet you sleep with nothing,” Noé replied, laying the pocketknife on my bedside table. “Have you lost yours?”
It was a fair point. Turning away, I adjusted my covers, pulling them more snugly against my waist. Between Noé and me, the duvet dipped; I examined the ravine of space, wishing it were larger.
“Well then.” Noé yawned as I reached toward my end table, fetching the piece of paper which lay there. “What’s our plan for the day?” he asked.
I didn’t answer him immediately. I’d left the schedule Bastian had given me the day prior in the library, but after my request, Mia had retrieved it. Now I studied the page, eager to see what kind of premarital activities the Weaver King had forced me into. “Our?”
“Yes, our.” The headboard trembled as Noé slumped against it. “What’s that?”
Shifting nearer, he reached for the paper; I snatched it back. “A bridal schedule,” I replied shortly. “Apparently, your father is quite the wedding enthusiast.”
I ran my eyes over the roster of events.
Beneath yesterday’s tea, a bridal fitting was listed, then something termed a Maiden’s Race which I did not pretend to understand.
Other events followed afterward: a formal rehearsal—that, at least, seemed self-explanatory—more fittings, a couple of dinners, and—
I paused. “What is a hunter’s sojourn?”
“A Weaver tradition. Typically, the groom’s father puts together a hunting party for said groom and his close friends in advance of the wedding.
A weekend in the country, or, in other words, utter hells.
He put that on there?” Again, Noé grabbed at the paper—and again, I attempted to move it away.
But he was quicker this time, reaching around me and snatching it as I retreated.
Winking, he sat back. His forehead creased as he read over the schedule—first with perplexity, then, I thought, concern. His shoulders hunched. “Where did he even learn some of these terms?”
I took advantage of his befuddlement to steal the paper back again, slipping it in my bedside drawer before he could protest. “We’ll deal with each event as it comes,” I said.
Dwelling on the schedule made me uneasy—Bastian had obviously packed it to ensure my bridesmaids had as many opportunities to kill me as possible. It was not a pleasant thought.
Clearing my throat, I pivoted. “Have you heard any whispers about Dorian yet?”
Noé shook his head. “None,” he replied. “It’s odd—he was never one for subtlety, but wherever he’s hidden himself, he’s done it well.
I wrote to the proprietors of all his usual haunts—he hasn’t frequented them in months.
” He braced his elbows against the mattress, propping himself higher.
“I’ll speak with Bernard today. From what I recall, Dorian had charge of the guest list the night of the Midway Ball, but he’s far too lazy to have kept the responsibility to himself.
He likely passed the task off to a servant at some point during the evening, once my father was distracted. ”
It wasn’t a bad theory. I nodded, then tensed as Noé swung his head toward me.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said. His voice lowered; his words crawled down my spine. “How are you alive?”
I flinched. “Are you inquiring generally?”
He smirked. “You said Manon made an attempt on your life, but you never mentioned how you survived it,” he clarified. “Though you are always welcome to speak generally with me if you like. I feel certain you have a rather fascinating backstory.”
I ignored him. “I accessed an extrapolation,” I admitted.
Noé shed his humorous expression, leaning closer. “Tell me.”
I did. Pulling my knees to my chest, I narrated the prior morning’s events, beginning with my own entrance to the library and continuing through Manon’s attack.
Eliot’s arrival, and his engagement to Clio, I left out.
Noé had made no mention of it, and if he hadn’t yet heard, I had no desire to be the one who enlightened him.
To be frank…Eliot’s words haunted me again. I am not sure whether you can love anyone, Lovett.
When I finished, Noé arched a brow. “You didn’t think to remain in the library with Manon after Anais had warned you against going off with other girls?”
I scowled. It was a misstep I’d reflected on, too—but that did not mean I wanted him to point it out. “Prior to yesterday, Manon had never given me any reason to fear her.”
“That wouldn’t stop you normally.” Noé clicked his tongue in disapproval. “No, you underestimated her. I spoke to you about this, Tamerlane.”
He had, and I hated it. I ducked my head, frustrated with myself for letting him rile me. As if registering my embarrassment, Noé reached out and laid a hand—not on me, but directly to my side.
“Would it help to know that I’m proud of you?” he asked. Surprised, I glanced up. He was smiling, a wry, dimpled sort of grin, as though I’d amused and impressed him all at once. “I knew you could do it.”
He was speaking of my Wit—all our failed practices. I turned away. “Your approval means nothing to me.”
He sighed. “Well, you’ve earned it nonetheless.”
Standing, he raised his arms above his head in a stretch. “Until tonight, sweetheart.”