Chapter Twenty-Seven #2
“There you are,” Noé said. His tone was low and gritty, sending shivers over me. “That’s much better.”
We cycled through several more breaths that way, our chests rising and falling in tandem. When my pulse had calmed enough that I no longer felt as though my heart was about to hurtle out of my body, he dropped my arm, rose, and crossed to close the door.
I sat up against my pillows as he shifted back toward me.
Now that we were no longer touching, the urge to turn away from him was powerful, the reality of what I’d allowed him to witness settling in.
Not since Markham had tossed me out of our apartment had I lost my grip on myself like that.
It was a vulnerability I had permitted not even Eliot to approach.
My parents had left me; my brother despised me; society opposed me, simply because of my silkwitch status. I was my only protector. If I fell, who would help me up?
“There is no need to be embarrassed by it, you know,” Noé said, watching me. “Emotion. It only means that you care.”
I snapped my gaze to him, suddenly defensive. “I do not care.”
“Oh?” he smirked. “Well then, I suppose you are like me.”
At first, I didn’t comprehend his meaning—until my memory flashed back to the pub, and the insult I’d lobbed at him there. Name one person you care for whose surname is not Lear. Such a pointlessly cruel thing to say. Reflecting on it, I blushed.
He seemed to register my discomfort. Leaving the door behind—in addition to locking it, he’d dragged an armchair beneath its knob to prevent it from opening—he moved in the direction of the bed.
I wondered, for a moment, whether he was preparing to climb in with me, but instead, he only sat at its foot, balancing on the edge of the bed frame.
He ran a hand through his hair, tugging on his curls. “I know I have not spoken to you about her much,” Noé said flatly. “Ophelia.”
Our stares connected. I hadn’t expected him to bring up Ophelia. He’d referenced her in the automobile, of course, when he’d told me the only goal which mattered to him was revenge against his father, but I thought we’d laid the subject to rest once we’d reentered Fortblanche.
He must have seen me judging him, then. Was this his attempt to explain himself?
“When we were younger, the three of us were so close—Eliot and I in particular, but Ophelia, too,” Noé continued.
“Their mother died when Eliot was twelve, and mine a year later, both of illnesses from which they never recovered. Witnessing my father’s and my relationship as you have, it will come as no surprise to you to hear that we’ve never gotten along, not even in my youth.
Following my mother’s passing, the Lears became my family.
“Ophelia and I…We weren’t a natural match,” Noé admitted after a pause.
“I think that’s part of why Eliot never guessed at what we’d become—the two of us were so obviously ill-suited for one another, in so many ways, that no one would have anticipated a connection would develop between us.
” Glancing at me again, he smirked humorlessly.
“She despised my vices,” he said. “Like you. Prior to me, the few men she had allowed to court her had been upstanding, virtuous. Usually reformer types, fixed on bending the world to their moral ruler. But…” He hesitated.
“We had one thing in common. She wanted a way out of her family, and I wanted a way in.”
Sighing, he hunched forward, worrying at his lip with his thumb.
“Sometimes I wonder if our entire relationship was about Eliot,” Noé said. “Ophelia felt stifled by him—by the expectations he set on her—and I…more than anything, I just wanted his approval.”
His speech halted. As he’d been talking, his tone had turned dreamy—like he was sifting through old memories, examining what he found there—but now he seemed to remember himself.
He arched a brow at me. “I’m trying to sympathize with you.”
My neck warmed. Was that what he was doing? I didn’t know how to reply to his confessions; it felt like I had been thrown into a dance, the steps to which I had not learned.
I searched my mind for some response but came up only with: “What sort of approval?”
Noé grimaced. “It’s difficult to explain,” he replied. “I was speaking with him just before I came up here. He said…” He hesitated again, then shook his head as if he’d thought better of the disclosure. I flushed. I already knew what Eliot said. “It doesn’t matter, actually.
“Eliot despises his father, Reginald, but in a different way than I do mine,” Noé went on after a beat had passed.
“He hates that his father has made himself—and the Lear family, by extension—into a footstool for Bastian Alaire to step on. He hates that Reginald is willing to bend, to scrape, to retain my father’s support, which he needs to fund his own Parliamentary campaigns.
He hates that his father has no principles. ”
His shoulders lifted in a shrug.
“His entire life, Eliot has worked to build himself into the perfect gentleman, the perfect politician—someone able to detangle himself from his family’s crooked legacy.
Meanwhile, I’ve always felt…directionless.
I never wanted to be good enough for the world.
Primarily, I wanted…” His throat bobbed.
“Well, I suppose I wanted to be good enough for him.”
He exhaled.
“There were times in our friendship where I believed he kept me close to him only so that I might act as his shadow. A wicked reflection, against which he appeared…purer. Brighter.”
Without warning, he glanced back at me.
“I’m being harsh. Lear’s a good man, despite his faults,” Noé said suddenly. “His goodness is the trait he values most about himself. If he really despises you as Clio claims, it’s only because he loves you, and his pride won’t allow him to cope with the possibility of your loss.”
My throat was tight. Suddenly, I was glad it was dark, that night had obscured my reactions like a mask; I could not help how brazenly I was studying him.
“I’m not so sure,” I answered Noé after a minute had passed. “I…I deceived you before. Eliot and I aren’t together in that way anymore. He…” My speech hitched. “He left me, the day of your father’s bridal tea. He thinks me cruel. And I fear the same about myself.”
Noé inclined his head. “You worry you’re cruel?”
I flinched, looking away. “I know I am.”
He hummed. “And is that such a bad thing?” he asked. “I rather enjoy your cruelty.”
I felt a thrill go down my spine and could not understand the meaning of it. Some of his usual slyness had reentered his expression; when our gazes brushed, though, it was swept away.
Rising, Noé cleared his throat. “Go to sleep,” he said. “I’ll stay up for a while, ensure Clio doesn’t come back.”
Caught off guard, I nodded. “Noé,” I called after him as he started toward the door.
He twisted around. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d spoken his name aloud; he seemed as surprised by the utterance as I was.
“I’m sorry about Ophelia,” I said, lowering my eyes. “And your mother.”
His expression strained, as close to tenderness as I’d seen from him. When he spoke again, his voice was thick. “Thank you, Tamerlane.”
I dipped my head in another shallow nod. Lowering myself onto my elbows, I began the process of settling into bed.
“Lovett.” I glanced up. Noé was watching me carefully; he appeared guarded, as if behind his eyes there existed a room he did not wish me to see.
Collecting himself, he jerked his chin to the door.
“We’ll get her back.”
Somehow, I understood he was referring to Clio—and revenge for her attack on me. Against my better judgment, I smiled. “Naturally.”
He returned my smirk, his softer. Facing away from him, I tucked myself beneath my sheets, laying my head on my pillow.
I remained there, eyes closed and unmoving, without speaking to him again, but I was aware of his presence until I fell asleep.