Chapter Thirty-Four
“Tamerlane.”
My name sounded through the silence of the carriage.
We were driving back toward Fortblanche, Philippe having returned with a sleepy-looking doctor shortly after Mireille had finished tending to Noé.
The man’s examination of my fiancé had yielded little; aside from the fact that he’d nearly perished, Noé appeared perfectly healthy.
The verdict brought me as much confusion as it did relief.
Now I looked over to where Noé had been napping on my shoulder. His eyes were open, his gaze bleary. I could feel his chin digging into my flesh. “How do you feel?” I asked.
He frowned. “Excellent, actually,” he replied. “What happened?”
His response, at least, loosened the knot of worry in my chest. “I’m not sure.
” A terrible answer—I hated admitting it.
“One of Dorian’s silkwitches, I think. His talk about friendship must have been a lie.
” Glancing down at him, I sighed. “You don’t recall one of his girls approaching you on our way out? Touching you—or something of the like?”
Noé shook his head. He’d yet to lift it from my shoulder, instead simply tilting it to look up at me. I stiffened as, tentatively, he raised a hand toward my face.
“Don’t say it,” I said.
His fingers brushed over my jaw. “You saved me.”
My neck flared with heat. Before I could think better of it, I jerked my shoulder forward, sending him crashing into my lap.
“Sisters three, Tamerlane.” He swore, righting himself. “I’m injured.”
“You said you were feeling excellent,” I sniped in reply. My skin felt tender where he’d brushed it. Self-conscious, I pressed myself against the window. “You are incredibly close.”
Noé huffed. Shaking his head, he moved to the opposite end of the carriage bench—as far from me as he could conceivably get while remaining in the same space. “Better?”
I nodded. The carriage air was dark and stale between us, bitter with the scent of wood polish. Positioned as we were, we could have been two statues, taken from our original posts and locked away in storage—doomed to glare at one another until one of us eroded.
Minutes ticked by, impossible to quantify with the night sealing us off like a great black cloche.
I winced as, without warning, a throbbing pain flared at my temples, where the band of my caul bit into my skin.
The use of my Wit, and Noé’s near-death encounter, had left me shaky and exhausted, exacerbating the slight headache which had appeared upon Philippe’s return into an agonizing, teeth-clenching ordeal.
Reaching up, I attempted to pull the accessory off, but the netting snagged on the jeweled pins interspersed throughout my hairdo. I hissed as the caul gripped painfully at my scalp, like it was punishing me for my attempt to remove it.
Noé inclined his head. “What is it?”
His concern made me flush—I did not want to need it. “It’s nothing.”
Shifting away from him, I worked my fingers through my waves, but it was no use. The caul only became more tangled as a result of my prodding, knotting up with my hair as though the two were one.
Giving up, I turned sullenly toward Noé again. “The caul is stuck.”
Loose hair wisped against my forehead. Embarrassed, I picked at the pins studded over my scalp for another minute, all too aware of Noé watching me wordlessly from the other side of the bench, before he sighed and said in a tone of great irritation, “Would you let me?”
I paused. His features were stern—exasperated, even—his mouth a flat line beneath the creased arrow of his brows, and yet…behind it all, I thought I sensed a kind of hesitancy. As if his annoyance was only a disguise, held up to prevent me from glimpsing whatever lay beneath.
My lips parted. No one had touched my hair since Eliot.
In fact, aside from arranging it every morning, I barely touched it.
Most of the time, it was kept separate from me, bound up in the protective webbing of a caul as if a single brush with my skin would dirty it.
There were instances when it did not feel like part of me at all—when I resented it, as though it were a precious relic which I was forced to guard at all times.
All of this, I was prepared to state. But then another pulse of agony reverberated through my temples, and before I could stop myself, I was turning on impulse, pivoting so my back was facing toward him.
I inhaled as he shifted closer. His nearness was tangible, like humidity, or frost—I could feel it thickening the air. A thrill passed through me as, delicately, his fingers made contact with my scalp.
There was a muted plink as one pin, then another, fell to the carriage floor. Noé’s touch was unexpectedly gentle; he moved slowly over my waves, parsing strand from strand, combing them out so they lay flat and silky against my back.
Whenever the tip of his fingers brushed my skin, I felt a small shock, like a bead of static.
Neither of us spoke a word; for several minutes, there was only quiet and the unflinching darkness of the coach, the sensation of his hands dragging through my hair and the knowledge of his presence hovering just over my shoulder, the hot shiver of his breath against my neck.
Finally, he tugged the last pin free, the caul dropping to the seat between us.
I lowered my shoulders, expecting him to move away now that his task was complete—yet instead of retreating, Noé lingered where he was.
His fingers traced a light path down the back of my head, all the way to the base of my neck.
The soft buzz of his nails over my flesh was glorious. Against my will, my lips parted. A small noise escaped me—deeper than a sigh, nearly a groan.
The sound seemed to bring us both back. Behind me, Noé froze; blushing, I whipped around, my hair slipping like a rope through his hands. In the dimness, it was difficult to place his expression—his skin was puddled with shadows, his eyes so dark they were practically black.
As if unable to help himself, he reached forward, tucking a loose strand behind my ear.
“You know you don’t need to wear that if you dislike it.” His attention dipped briefly to the caul tossed like a discarded fruit peel to the seat cushion, then rose to my face. “Not for me.”
A shiver moved down my spine at the rough quality of his speech. I waited for him to lower his arm, but his fingers continued to trace the lock of hair he held like a ribbon.
I swallowed. “Of course I need to,” I replied. “Pleasure or displeasure has no part in it. I must wear it for the same reason all silkwitches must—because society would reject us otherwise.”
It was an honest response, yet rather than accept it, Noé frowned. “I am society,” he said. “My father is society. Do you think that if others tried to exclude you, I would not step in to stifle their dissent?”
He shifted closer, knuckles curling against my ear.
“You are to be my wife, Tamerlane,” he murmured. “I would stand beside you until my last breath.”
I went still. There was a tenderness in the way he spoke my name that I did not like. His thumb moved over my temple, tracing a slow arc.
With as much steeliness as I could muster, I corrected him, “I am your victor. Not your wife. There’s a difference.”
Taking his wrist, I drew it away from my skull, lowering it back to his side.
“You owe me nothing but your part of the bargain we made, as I owe nothing to you.”
His brow creased. “You are more than my victor,” Noé countered. “Have you not yet realized that?” He shook his head, his expression earnest. “You could have come to me at the start of the Vainglory on your knees, clad in nothing but rags. You still would have won.”
My throat sealed over. I could not bear to meet his gaze—it was too honest, too full of realities I refused to confront. “Stop it,” I hissed. “You chose me because my Wit allowed you the best chance of defeating your father. Don’t mislead yourself.”
“I chose you because…” Noé’s voice broke. “I chose you…”
His features pulled. The silence felt dangerous; I couldn’t shake the impression that he was weighing it, debating whether or not to go on.
I was no fool. I understood that in the time we’d been betrothed, some form of—I hated to call it—attraction, had grown between us, despite my best efforts.
He was clever, and wickedly handsome, and had defended me where others had not.
It was only natural that, forced into such constant, close proximity, my feelings of gratitude had begun to warp into… something else.
It was natural, and it meant nothing. If anything, the pull between us was like a fever. I needed only to cure the disease which fed it, and it would dissipate like dew on grass.
“Noé.” I laid a palm on his chest before he could continue, coaxing him back.
“Mmm?”
“This is unwise.” He only glanced down, studying my splayed fingers. Determined, I said more forcefully, “I will always be loyal to Eliot.”
He looked up. It was with complete steadiness that he replied, “All right.”
The answer did nothing to assuage my concerns. “You will never have what you want.”
“Fine.” He shrugged loosely. When his eyes flicked back to mine, they softened. “I would never force you into anything, Tamerlane,” he said. “You are your own creature.”
I had not yet removed my hand from his chest. His face was downturned to better study mine, my chin tilted up so that only a few inches separated us. I knew I should turn away, but instead I found myself asking, “What of Ophelia?”
At last, a reaction—he flinched. “You never knew Ophelia.”
“You loved her.” I said it like a reminder, but still, I did not move.
“Of course I did,” Noé replied. To my immense frustration, his mouth twisted in a pitying half smile.
I’d hoped for anger, something to force the separation I seemed pathetically unable to initiate on my own.
“Is that what you think love is?” he asked.
“Some kind of eternal sentence? A whipping post to lash yourself to and receive beatings every time you stray from it?”
It was precisely what I thought, but I would never be the one to admit it. “I believe love is honest,” I hissed. “We do not like each other, Noé. Whatever compulsion you think you feel toward me is nothing but another form of rivalry—the desire to claim that which belongs to your former friend.”
His reply was hushed. “This has nothing to do with Eliot.”
“But it is still false.” Finally—finally—I dropped my hand.
“It’s as you said the other night. You loathe me, and I loathe you.
Soon, you shall remember that.” Calmer now that we were not touching, I swept my gaze over his figure.
“If it is physical satisfaction you require, you are more than welcome to procure a mistress.”
He chuckled. “Please,” he said bitterly. “That would only make things worse. I would feel you every time I touched her.”
My cheeks blazed. “That is a purely ridiculous thing to say.”
“Oh yes. I know.” His reply came immediately.
My heart lurched as he shifted nearer—barely an inch, and yet I felt the impact of it as though he’d leapt from across the carriage.
“You have no idea how many ridiculous notions my head has been filled with as of late, Tamerlane,” he said lowly.
“How many cross my mind each night when I lie beside you.”
I tried to force a response, but none came. His nearness was provoking—all I could think of, all I could see, was his expression as he lay, dying, in my arms. The desperation which had latched on to me at Mireille’s appearance…I hadn’t cared a whit for my own safety, only his.
I’d never wanted that before. To protect someone, help someone, over myself.
Abruptly, he retreated toward the window, the space between us opening up again. “If you do not wish to speak of it,” Noé said crisply, “we will not speak of it.”
Relief unfolded within me. “I do not wish to,” I replied. “Nor shall I ever.”
His eyes flared. “Fine.”
“Fine.” I met his gaze.
We both scowled. Despite the fact that we’d nothing more to say, neither of us seemed willing to be the first to break our staring match; instead, we remained as we were, breathing heavily.
The carriage was unbearably stuffy—I felt like I wanted to rip my skin off and curl up within it, anything to escape the excruciating razor of his notice. At the thought, my neck reddened.
He registered it. Through the darkness, I saw his expression shift. His eyes became questioning—by his side, his fingers twitched—
We were both thrown forward as the carriage rolled to a halt. Beyond my window, I made out the flat expanse of Fortblanche’s front drive, the steep cliffs ceding to the ocean far below.
I snapped my chin to the left, ending the standoff. “We’re here.”
Without waiting for his assent, I opened the door. Fortblanche’s grounds were abandoned; ahead of us, the estate slept quietly, the atmosphere as still and dead as a long-stagnant lake.
I did not glance back as I stepped over the threshold, into the murky hull of the house once more.