Chapter Twenty-Three
My skin itched as we approached the front doors.
Our journey to the pub and back had taken several hours. We were late into the afternoon now, nearly on the cusp of evening. Already, the sunlight had ripened to a deep gold, like bread baked in an oven.
Squinting, I raised my hand and brushed absently at my temple. I could not rid myself of the feeling of Noé’s fingers gusting gently over my hair. The memory of his touch seemed to have stuck to me, as irritating and persistent as a fly.
I’m a romantic.
I was jerked out of my thoughts as, to my left, Noé swore. “Shit.”
Pausing, I focused. We’d reached Fortblanche’s threshold, the area around it silent and still.
Above the grand double doors, a sleek-looking raven sat perched atop the peaked stone mantel, the only living creature apart from the pair of us.
It glared down its beak at me as I examined it, as if offended by my impudence in studying it so directly.
Leaning up against the doors beneath it were three items. The larger two caught my attention first: a pair of ivy garlands, evidently molded to fit over the wearer’s brows. Their leaves were dark and glossy as though freshly picked.
The third item was a note.
Son and Miss Lovett,
We have gone ahead and started without you. Find me on the terrace abutting the main ballroom—I will be waiting there for you both. So long as you retain possession of your crowns until you reach me, victory shall be yours.
Best of luck, children.
It was signed by the Weaver King. Frowning, I reached for the nearest ivy garland—the obvious candidate for the crown Bastian’s message mentioned. At my motion, Noé leapt forward, blinking as if coming out of a stupor.
“Don’t!”
His warning hit me just as my fingers brushed over the leaves. Startled, I pulled my arm back—then glanced up as I caught a flicker of movement in my periphery.
Dark feathers fluttered at the top of my vision. Above us, the raven had detached itself from its perch and was swooping downward, toward the spot where Noé and I stood. I caught a glimpse of its talons as it zipped nearer—claws extended beneath its body like a pair of hooks.
The air shuddered. One moment I was staring into the raven’s beady eyes; the next the bird had vanished, and a girl stepped forward in its place. She was dark-haired, dressed in gray, her shining locks caught up in a webbed ebony caul.
Delphine Barbier. Another of the silkwitches I’d competed against in the Vainglory—another of my new, unwanted bridesmaids who’d been dismissed from the competition before I’d gotten to know her. My pulse faltered as she met my gaze. What was happening?
Again, it was Noé who brought me back. “Knife!” he shouted, pointing at Delphine.
She did indeed have one. I ducked as it swung overhead, narrowly missing the top of my scalp. Delphine yelped in annoyance, unbalanced. Sensing my opportunity, I dove forward, wrapping my arms around her knees and pulling her down.
It happened in the span of an instant. Delphine’s legs gave out, her head knocking hard against the paved stone. There was a dull thunk as her skull collided with the ground, before—all at once—she went limp.
Her eyes closed, her lips parted. Untangling myself from her, I fumbled for her pulse—shallow, but decidedly present—then clambered unsteadily to my feet.
Immediately, Noé’s hand was at my elbow. “We need to get inside.”
I wrenched away from him as he went to open the doors. “Why? What is this?”
“Tam—Cecilia, I mean—there’s no time.” His voice broke; collecting himself, Noé retrieved the arm I’d ripped from his grasp. “The race begins as soon as you touch the crown,” he hissed. “We can discuss the rest inside.”
The race. The Maiden’s Race? My heart lurched at the reminder of the event I’d mentioned to Noé prior to our trip into town, Bastian’s note suddenly making a great deal more sense. We are in another game. We’d been gone for so long, I’d assumed that we’d missed it.
I stooped to pick up the ivy garlands from the ground. Passing one to Noé, I kept the other for myself, then—casting a final look at Delphine’s prone figure—followed my fiancé indoors.
The double doors creaked open. Beyond them, Fortblanche was quiet, no servant rushing forth to welcome us as they usually did.
The house was dark, as if its clocks were running several hours ahead of those outside—it took me a moment to place why.
All the curtains had been drawn over the windows, the gas lamps extinguished so that there was nothing to displace the murk which had rushed in.
Briefly, my mind returned to the tunnels, the lightless press of their shadowed crevices, the huff of Clio’s breath as she hunted me down, and I shivered.
Noé took my hand, the direness of our situation removing any potential awkwardness from the gesture. “We need to get to the White Terrace,” he muttered.
I nodded. The destination Bastian had laid out for us was a familiar one to me.
As his note had stated, the feature directly abutted Fortblanche’s ballroom, sweeping out over the cliffside like a great ivory wing.
It had been from the terrace that Ophelia Lear had tumbled to her death, over a year prior.
The reminder of her passing was grim enough that I did not venture out onto the terrace often—but I’d be damned if I let another silkwitch beat me there today.
Letting Noé take the lead, I trailed behind him through the corridors, glancing over my shoulder every so often to ensure we were not being followed.
Several minutes into our walk I spotted a plain-looking door on the hall’s right-hand side.
From experience, I knew it led to a linen closet, a small, compact space utilized exclusively by the servants.
I acted on instinct. Before he could react, I tugged Noé into the closet and firmly shut the door behind us.
Laying my free hand on his chest, I forced him to look at me. “Tell me.”
His eyes flared. “Tamerlane!”
“The door will not unlock so long as I command it.” I gave my rebuttal readily.
In an odd way, the awareness that we’d been shoved into another trial had calmed me—I felt as though I’d been sat down at a game board, all its pieces laid in front of me to play.
“No one will reach us in here,” I assured him.
“You evidently dragged us to that pub in an effort to avoid this event. Now tell me exactly what we are up against or I swear, I will leave you here and continue on by myself.”
Noé’s jaw was tight. I held my breath until, a moment later, he gave in.
“It is another old Balmoorish wedding tradition,” he answered.
“It’s hardly practiced anymore—most city-folk, at least, consider the game rather outdated.
” Sighing, he leaned back against the closet shelves.
“The race is a contest of sorts. The rules themselves are simple: Essentially, a bride- and groom-to-be must beat their respective bridal parties to a designated location while protecting a token. A crown, in this case.” He nodded to the one I carried.
“If any of their fellows manage to steal it off them before they reach the race’s end point, they succeed in ‘winning’ the opposite partner for a night.
A bridesmaid would secure an evening with the groom, for instance, or a groomsman, time alone with the bride. ”
He smirked weakly when I made a face.
“It’s less sordid than it sounds—at least, usually,” Noé justified. “In most cases, the whole thing is treated as a kind of joke, but…”
Both of our gazes clouded. I knew he, like I, was thinking of Delphine, sprawled across the threshold far behind us. The knife she’d had with her, now discarded on the stone.
I swallowed, finishing Noé’s sentence. “Your father has taken a more literal approach.”
He grimaced. “If Delphine’s behavior is anything to judge by, yes,” he confirmed. “Her Wit allows her to inhabit a raven’s form—but only once per day. She must have been waiting there for us for hours.”
The thought was too disturbing to dwell on. Instead, I rolled my shoulders back and met his gaze. “All right, then,” I said. “Keep up.”
Opening the door, I thrust us back into the hallway.
The corridor was abandoned—no bridesmaids waiting outside the closet to nab my crown off me—though the fact in itself did nothing to settle my nerves.
Biting down on my bottom lip, I placed the ivy circlet on my head and—once Noé had done the same—slipped my palm back into his, coaxing us onward.
We walked in silence. When we reached another break in the corridor, Noé took charge, attempting to lead me to the left.
He looked down in irritation when I resisted him. “The shortest route to the terrace is this way,” he whispered.
“Precisely.” I jerked him in the opposite direction, matching his low volume. “That way is the most direct path; therefore it is also the direction in which my bridesmaids are most likely waiting. We will go around the estate, this way.”
He didn’t budge. “The other girls will expect you to play tricks,” he said.
His rationalizing was annoying me—I yanked at him harder.
“They are not so simpleminded as to cluster along one route. You are their target. If they have any sense at all—which I know for a fact they do—they will be attempting to think like you.” He shook me off as I gave him a particularly hard pull.
“Dammit, Tamerlane. We were getting along so well during the drive.”
The reminder of the drive—our encounter with my brother—made me stiffen. “Impossible,” I said. “You and I cannot get along any more than a mouse may befriend a cat.”
He huffed. “No?”
I met his glare with one of my own. “Absolutely not.”
His jaw ticked. Hanging by his side, his hand stiffened just as from the far end of the hallway came the sound of pattering feet.
We both turned in unison. Behind us, rounding the same corner we’d turned only a couple minutes prior, was Delphine Barbier. She paused when she caught sight of us, swaying woozily, one hand pressed against the wall for balance.
In the other was her knife.
Noé looked back at me. “Good argument. Shall we continue it later?”
I swallowed, for once not bothering to protest. “Agreed.”
We took off running—to the right, I registered with a brief flicker of satisfaction. Being the taller of us, Noé was faster, his strides wider than my own. I hastened to keep up until, with a surge of dread, I felt one of my boots catch on the hem of my skirt.
My balance was knocked out from under me. At once, I began to fall, the floor racing up to meet me. I closed my eyes, picturing Delphine advancing to our backs—
And yelped as I found myself suddenly lifted away from the ground. When my lashes fluttered open again, it was to the sensation of my head pressed against Noé’s chest. He’d picked me up, one arm supporting my back, the other hooked beneath my knees.
I stared up at him, gripping my ivy circlet. “What are you—”
He interrupted, panting. “Not now, Cecilia!”
I stopped talking. On either side of us, doors whipped by, the corridor extending in a straight line in front of us. Desperate, I summoned my Wit, feeling behind the entrances as we passed them.
Dead end. Dead end. The rooms adjoining this hallway were mostly studies and sitting areas—neat little boxes. We could get in easily enough, but unless we returned the way we’d come, we couldn’t get out. Another study. Another Sisters-damned—
“There!” I pointed at a door to our direct left. Based on the impression my Wit had given me, it was yet another drawing room, but to the back of it I’d sensed a second entrance. A hidden door, leading into the tunnels. An escape route.
To his credit, Noé obeyed me without question. Still clutching me against him, he swung to the side, throwing open the door I’d specified and rushing us through. Shutting it after him, he slumped against its wooden face.
His eyes met mine. Partially bent over as he was, our faces were mere inches from one another’s, his ivy crown casting a shadow over my features. Suddenly, I became aware of his pulse beating against my skin—hurried and urgent. I’d barely felt it before.
Noé’s throat bobbed. “Your clumsiness will be the death of us both.”
I blinked. Before I could form a response, an unfamiliar voice issued from the dimness.
“Hello there,” it said.