Chapter Nineteen
The dress was even worse than I’d feared.
I did not recognize the version of myself that gazed reproachfully back at me from the full-length mirror—her hair bound in a tight caul, her limbs as stiff as a wire doll’s, propped up on its stand.
The gown Bastian Alaire had chosen for me was a white silk behemoth, the pale, slightly yellow shade of an old tooth.
It had a high neckline hemmed in by enormous gigot sleeves, a brocade skirt with a distracting floral pattern, and a bustle sprouting from my back end like a tumor.
I looked like I was being consumed by some giant, carnivorous lily, only my head left free. I felt as though I’d been bound into a straitjacket.
And if the facade continues to the end of the aisle? Eliot’s voice invaded without warning, poisoning my thoughts. If your wedding day comes and Bastian still lives, will you keep on acting then?
For a moment, I sank into the memories, certain I would vomit. Then a knock sounded from the door behind me, and I pushed them out.
I’d hoped, when Mia had first told me of my dress fitting, that the errand would take us into town, but apparently Bastian did not trust any of the Isle d’Eylau’s modistes to clad his future daughter-in-law—or perhaps none of them were willing to play accomplice to such an egregious crime of fashion.
As such, we’d set up in one of Fortblanche’s parlors, a theoretically sunny room on its eastern flank, its windows currently carpeted by rain.
The servants who dressed me had not wanted to wait for my final guest to arrive before fastening me into my gown—fine by me.
It was not for her clothing taste that I’d summoned her.
Without turning from the mirror, I eyed the maid starting toward the door in its reflection. “Leave as you admit her. I desire private time with my companions.”
The girl nodded. Reaching the entrance, she opened it halfway and curtsied to the visitor waiting on the other side, then slipped past her to allow her in.
Nathalie Moreau was tall—taller even than me—and willowy, her long black hair bound into a beaded caul.
She wore Moreau red, the preferred color of her sorcerer relatives; the shade suited her tanned skin and dark, hooded eyes.
Her gaze slid to me without hesitation as she entered, alert and inquisitive, as if she were curious to learn why I’d called her.
I met her stare. Of the dozen or so active Weaver lines in Balmoore, the Moreaus were clustered near the top of the pack in terms of prestige and power—though they despised city life as much as Bastian Alaire adored it, primarily keeping to their lavish estate in the western part of the country, near Changeling’s Woods.
Nathalie’s father was only a cousin of the current Moreau patriarch, Arnaud, meaning her family’s influence was slightly lesser than their kin’s.
Still, during the Vainglory, I’d heard tales of her Wit: the ability to speak with mice, and all rodents which wound their way through the mansion’s halls.
They called her the Ghost, because at once she could be everywhere, and nowhere at all.
Pulling the door shut behind her, Nathalie stepped forward—then abruptly paused. Her head tipped down toward her neck, and the knife currently pressed against her throat.
Blade in hand, Anais shifted away from the wall where she’d been lurking out of sight.
My fellow silkwitch had been all too happy to oblige when I’d written and asked her to come early to the fitting, her messenger weaving back through the streets of the capital with her reply almost as quickly as I’d had Mia drop off my request. I got the sense that she viewed my summons as proof that I intended to honor the maid-of-honor title she’d forced me to bestow upon her—a regrettable concession which I nonetheless could see no way out of.
I supposed I could bear the duplicitous maiden standing by my side on my wedding day if she also allowed me to place her in dark corners when I needed, to carry out my bidding.
“Ratty Natty,” Anais cooed, edging closer so that the flat of her knife was dug into the soft triangle of Nathalie’s flesh just beneath her chin. “Good to see you again. Apologies for the rude greeting.”
Nathalie eyed the other silkwitch’s blade.
Despite the threat of the weapon, her composure was cool.
She’d been the same during the bridal tea which Bastian had organized—lurking near the back of the pack while the rest of my bridesmaids had rushed up to me, eager to stake their claim on my attention.
Then I’d appreciated her reticence; now her caution set my defenses on edge.
Her stare snapped up, finding me where I stood on the opposite side of the room. “Have I done something to offend?”
She spoke directly to me, not so much as acknowledging Anais. By the way my coconspirator bristled, I could tell it bothered her. “Not yet,” I replied with a thin smile. “Though I fear you may be planning on it.” Tearing my attention from her, I nodded toward the other maiden. “Go on.”
Anais’s expression shuttered. Without lowering her knife, she laid a palm on Nathalie’s cheek, gently angling the other girl’s face in her direction. “Forgive me, dear.”
Their eyes locked. Even from my position near the looking glass, I could see Nathalie draw back into herself at Anais’s words. Still, the blade against her skin kept her from resisting as Anais dipped her head closer to Nathalie’s, pressing their lips chastely together.
As soon as their mouths brushed, Nathalie’s limbs went rigid. When Anais pulled away again, there was a dazed quality to the other silkwitch’s expression, a foggy disorientation as if Anais had spun her round a half dozen times and then left her to fumble for balance.
Witnessing it sent a chill through me. Over the course of our past encounters, I’d come to know Anais’s Wit—the ability to compel another to speak the truth with a kiss—well, but never had I seen her talents in action.
Now that I had, I couldn’t help but wonder if Manon was the only witch I’d underestimated.
At Anais’s prompting look, I cleared my throat and addressed Nathalie. “Do you have any weapons on your person?”
The silkwitch’s mouth pinched together. Anais jabbed her knife more firmly against the other girl’s flesh, and Nathalie’s lips gasped open as if yanked by a string.
“Yes.”
My heart stuttered as she spat out the word. With another nod, I directed Anais to search her. The fair-haired silkwitch did without hesitation, pulling Nathalie roughly against her and running a hand down her sides even as her other one retained its hold on the blade.
Her fingers paused near Nathalie’s waist. I watched, tensed, from my post by the mirror as Anais gave a reproving cluck of her tongue, then plunged her hand into a hidden pocket in the garment, the stitching so subtle, I hadn’t even noticed it was there.
Fishing around within it, she retrieved a tight coil of silver wire, about the thickness and shade of that which I’d seen stretched beneath the hood of a piano. For a moment, I could only stare at it, uncomprehending; then Anais traced a horizontal line across her throat, and I understood.
A garotte. I’d heard of the tool, though I’d never encountered one. They were civilized weapons—neat, noiseless. All it took was that wire slipped around an unlucky victim’s neck, and the deed was done.
My breath prickled in my lungs. This was not the sort of accessory typically found in a society silkwitch’s pocket.
“Did you bring this here to use on me? To kill me, in exchange for my fiancé’s hand in marriage?” I managed. Again, Nathalie delayed answering; again, Anais pricked her sharply with the knife, and she yelped out a reply.
“Yes.”
A thickening of blood—my whole body felt heavier, as if my veins had been pumped with iron. Still gripping Nathalie, Anais arched a brow, the message in the gesture clear. I told you so.
I averted my eyes. She was right—she had warned me of my fellow maidens’ plotting, as had Noé. It was only I who’d doubted that the girls I’d competed against would stoop so low.
Clearly, I’d been wrong. Clearly, to the vast majority of my peers, the ring on my finger and the safety it provided were worth infinitely more than my life.
Meanwhile, I’d been a fox, lounging about in its den, confident in my belief that while my killers were coming, they had not set off on their journey quite yet.
I’d missed the sound of the horn. The hunt had already begun.
Anais’s voice brought me back to the present. Though she’d secured the garotte, she had yet to release Nathalie, her knife still tucked beneath the other maiden’s jaw. “And what of weapons not on your person? Do you have any of those stowed away, dear?”
It was an intelligent question. I found myself illogically frustrated that Anais had come up with it rather than me. A second later, Nathalie gave a reluctant nod.
Anais wedged the point of her blade deeper, forcing the other girl’s chin up. “Show us.”
Grimacing, the dark-eyed maiden whistled. I started as, from beneath one of the armchairs, a small white shape came darting out: a mouse, as fat and round as an apple with a long pink worm of a tail.
It raced across the floor toward Nathalie, clawing swiftly up her dress to perch, nose twitching, on her shoulder. Though I was sure I was imagining it, there seemed a protective quality to the way the creature sat; its beady eyes drilled into mine, as if daring me to approach.
Gathering myself, I cleared my throat. “And who might this be?”
Nathalie nuzzled her cheek against the mouse, which was trembling, possibly with anxiety.
The creature appeared well cared for: Its fur was silky, its eyes shining.
I noticed a little black bow had been tied onto the end of its tail, swishing back and forth as it sat.
“This is Good Sister,” Nathalie said. “She will not harm you unless I command her.”
Good Sister. An odd name—I lifted a brow. “Where is Bad Sister?”