Chapter Thirty-Seven
I stowed the strange gloves beneath my mattress upon returning to Fortblanche. My visit with Manon had taken up most of the morning; back at the estate, I was greeted by an afternoon downpour, and the wedding rehearsal I’d been dreading all day.
We met in the receiving room, where I’d first been presented to Noé and his judges during the Vainglory—a moment that seemed so distant now.
I was the last to arrive. At the other end of the long throatlike hall, three figures were gathered, cast in the eerie, dim light filtering through the arched windows.
Noé spotted me before the others did. “Hello there.”
His father turned at the sound of his greeting. “Ah, Miss Lovett!” Bastian called out in a decidedly more cheerful manner. “You’re here—good, good. We can get started, then.”
He beckoned me closer. Beside him, an unfamiliar man stood, older than the Weaver King and his son put together and wearing a long white robe.
I recognized him as a priest from the tattoo in the center of his forehead: three red triangles interlocked, like children holding hands, meant to represent the sister goddesses.
I’d seen the same on the representatives at the temples my parents had dragged me to in my youth.
“This is Pupil Lucien,” Bastian said, nodding at the robed man.
“He will be officiating the bridal ceremony and has generously offered to oversee the rehearsal.” The Weaver King winked.
“Though he certainly does not need the practice. The Pupil has presided over dozens of weddings, including my own—oh, some eons ago now. Is that not so, Lucien?”
The priest smiled, bowing his head politely. “I see the passage of the years on my own face, though not on yours, sir. The Sisters have been kind to you.”
Bastian chuckled and waved off the compliment.
In the quiet that followed, I studied Lucien more closely.
His hands were pale, with long, spindly fingers.
I imagined them tying a strand of magesilk between Noé’s and my fingers, forcing me to repeat the vows that would bind my magic to him forever, and shivered.
“Well!” Bastian brought his hands together decisively, shaking me from my reverie. “You certainly do not need me disrupting things. I’ll sit quietly, just over there—you may pretend I am one of your guests.”
His teeth flashed jovially, as if the notion amused him.
When he brushed by Pupil Lucien, he paused, taking the other man by the elbow, and murmured, “Ensure she knows her role.”
His tone had shifted lower—an instruction, not a jest. Over the Weaver King’s shoulder, the priest’s gaze flitted to mine, calculating and opaque.
I felt a chill move through me as he nodded, patting Bastian once on the back.
Breaking away, Noé’s father moved to sit in a wooden chair placed along the receiving room’s wall.
He set his hands in his lap, crossing his legs at the knee as if he were settling in to observe a performance, his expression once more his standard mask of mirthful apathy.
Clearing his throat, the priest addressed us. “The ceremony will begin with a blessing,” he said flatly. “Traditionally, the groom will take the bride’s hands…”
He cast us a meaningful glance. Obediently, Noé and I shuffled nearer to one another. Intertwining our fingers felt too intimate, so instead I simply locked my palms with his, our hands pressed flat against one another’s.
Our eyes met. It was the first time I’d looked at him since the previous night—truly looked at him, not out of the side of my vision, not with some witty comment held up like a dagger to deflect his attention. I was surprised by how natural it felt—comfortable, almost, like falling into bed.
I would stand beside you until my last breath. I heard his voice and swiftly pushed it out, flustered.
Once we’d taken his desired position, Pupil Lucien went on, leading us through the opening blessing and the steps which followed after.
Through it all, Noé looked away from me only rarely, half turning his profile whenever he was asked a question so that even while he was addressing the priest, I always remained in his periphery.
His expression was neutral almost to the point of being forced, as if he were keeping careful hold over his composure.
“And have either of you spared a thought for your serenade?”
I started, nearly ripping my hands from Noé’s. My palms were sweating, and I’d grown distracted. When had that happened?
“I’m sorry?” I breathed.
Pupil Lucien blinked. “The lovers’ serenades,” he repeated in a somewhat irritated fashion.
“They typically precede the formal vows—though they are not usually sung, of course. It is only an expression of speech; they are more personal statements of love, or devotion, given from one partner to the other.”
My stomach pitched further with every word of explanation he gave. “I’m not sure that I understand.”
The priest sighed. “They are a precursor to your vows,” he said slowly.
I sensed I was testing his patience, but I could not make myself care.
“Meant to express emotions which your oaths do not include.” He nodded encouragingly toward Noé.
“For instance, you could describe the attributes you most appreciate about your betrothed. Whether you find him handsome, charming, or the like?”
This was horrifying. I steeled myself, eager to get it over with as soon as possible. “Obviously, he is handsome.”
Noé arched a brow. Unlike me, he seemed amused by the direction in which our rehearsal had developed, his mouth curling slightly at one corner. “Is it obvious?” he replied. “I didn’t know.”
“I am certain that you do,” I hissed. Gathering myself, I twisted toward Pupil Lucien.
“Surely, the serenades will be more meaningful if we do not practice them for one another prior to the ceremony?”
“I’d quite like to hear hers now, actually.” Noé broke in before the priest could reply, still retaining his loose hold on my hands. Catching my gaze, he said slyly, “Tell me, what is it you like best about me, dear?”
His voice was clearly mocking. Desperate, I glanced at the priest again, hoping for an escape, but the man only frowned and gestured for me to continue. Dammit.
I resigned myself to my fate. “I suppose you have nice eyes.”
As I said it, I met them. The gray of his irises was dark in the rainy half-light, like the sea at early morning, still touched by the ink pen of night.
“Do I?” Noé’s speech was soft. “Many people say that.”
For some reason, the idea that I’d selected a common compliment irked me. “Though it is your hands I favor the most,” I corrected quickly. Beside me, the priest nodded silently along in approval; absorbing my words, Noé tensed.
“My hands?” he echoed. “Why is that?”
I blushed. The answer had been instinctive, offered without thought or logic; only now, reflecting on it, did I realize I’d given myself away.
In truth, I thought of his hands an inordinate amount—over the past few days in particular, but prior to them, too.
How many times had I observed him at dinner since our engagement, the slightly flexed muscles of his forearm as he poured a carafe of wine?
How often had I found myself silently marveling at the way the liquid fell in an unbroken stream from the lip of the vessel into his glass, smooth under his touch?
More than anything else, it was his steadiness that enchanted me. How nice would it be, I thought whenever I watched him, to be held by someone who could bring me to such stillness. Who could, even if for only a moment, turn the world quiet.
But of course, I would say none of that.
“Because they can neither talk nor laugh at me,” I replied instead. “And because your fingers are far less sharp than your tongue.”
Noé regarded me closely. I could tell by the curiosity in his stare that he did not believe me, though he did not contest my response, either. Instead, he merely shifted and said, “And what would you know about my tongue?”
My skin blazed. I felt a rush of embarrassment, then gratitude as the priest cleared his throat, grounding me back in reality. Across from me, Noé smiled softly, as if pleased.
“And you, sir?” Pupil Lucien inquired. “What is it you most appreciate about Miss Lovett?”
Noé watched me for a long moment. “Her cruelty,” he answered, and I felt my heart twist.
“Indeed?” the priest replied. His discomfort was palpable—I wondered if Bastian could sense it, too, from where he was seated near the wall. “Well, perhaps you both may improve upon your responses prior to the wedding day. Now, continuing onward…”
—
The rehearsal progressed quickly after that.
It had taken everything in me to keep from flinching as Pupil Lucien looped a piece of twine around my finger, beneath my engagement ring—a stand-in for the magesilk which would be used on the actual wedding day—and tied its other end around Noé’s.
We had not practiced the vows, only discussed their generalities; I had a feeling Bastian did not want me to hear them prior to the ceremony, in case I found some loophole in the oaths which would prevent the binding from taking place.
It reminded me of our drive together—the advice he’d given me then.
Games are like weapons…There is the blade you show people, and the one you keep hidden. The second is far more important than the first.
The rest of the afternoon unfolded without incident. Toward evening, Noé knocked on my door.
I glanced up from where I was seated at my desk. We’d spent the hours since the rehearsal apart, a fact I’d been glad of. It had taken me a long while to shake off the feel of his hands, gripping mine.
He pushed the door wider when I beckoned him in. I raised a brow as he crossed to lean against my desk, questioning his nearness, but he disregarded me. “We haven’t spoken since your trip into town this morning,” he said. “How did it go with Manon?”