Chapter Thirty-Eight
Noé held true to his word.
The night passed without incident, the two of us lying side by side, together and yet untouching, in my bed.
Since Clio’s attempt on my life, there had been no other midnight visits from my fellow silkwitches.
If not for Mireille’s attack in the alleyway, there might have been no justification for Noé remaining in my room with me.
But the attack had occurred. There was a valid reason for our sleeping arrangement, a purpose.
Noé benefited from keeping me alive, so that I might help him kill his father after we wed; I benefited from being alive.
The hours we spent together under the cover of dark were nothing more than a way to ensure my safety.
If I repeated the excuse to myself enough, I could almost believe it.
I didn’t make any progress toward finding Sybil’s killer the next day, nor the one which followed.
The morning after that, Fortblanche woke early, the entirety of the estate alive with preparations for our pre-wedding dinner, which was set to commence around dusk.
It reminded me of the Vainglory—the servants buzzing about, the usually lonely corridors filled with noise, so that even when you walked alone, you could hear the echo of someone who’d gone before you.
A storm was kicking up as I made my way to Fortblanche’s front entrance in the evening, where Noé and I were supposed to be waiting to greet our guests.
Despite having spent most of my day alone in my room strategizing, I was running late—a result of the detour I’d made prior to Mia arriving to dress me.
Noé glanced over at me as I arrived in the entry hall. I’d barely fallen into place beside him—me, dressed in a gown of cream satin with lacy rosettes stitched along the bodice, him in a gray suit with an ivory ascot—when a knock came from outside.
Mireille Laurent was the first silkwitch to arrive.
Her elegant appearance and sleek lavender gown were somewhat undercut by the large bandage across her nose, a gauzy strip which mostly hid the bruising from where the carriage door had smacked her in the face in the alley outside Dorian’s club.
It was a struggle not to smirk at her as our gazes met.
Petty as it was, a part of me couldn’t help but be glad I’d left her with a token of our fight.
Perhaps she’d think twice before coming after me again.
She pressed something into my palm as I went to take her hands. A letter, I saw as I glanced down. It was in a black envelope, sealed with a daub of glossy ebony wax. I recognized the symbol stamped onto it: an open eye, ringed with sharp lashes.
Moving forward as if to embrace me, Mireille murmured in my ear. “From my benefactor.”
Dorian. My defenses rose. I grabbed the other silkwitch by the elbows as she went to move away. “Bold of him to write so soon after attempting to take my fiancé’s life,” I muttered, tightening our hug. “Dare I hope for an apology note?”
I could feel Mireille stiffen. “I talked to the rest of the witches,” she hissed under her breath. “They swear they played no part in what happened that night.”
I nearly laughed. “And you believe them?”
She pulled back. Noé was standing off to the side, watching our interaction with interest, but he made no move to butt in. “Do you trust your Wit?” Mireille asked.
It was an unexpected question. She’d locked her gaze with mine, so I could see the honesty in hers—the bluntness. When I nodded, she smiled grimly.
“So do I. And mine is telling me that whatever the bit of magic which infected your fiancé was, it wasn’t a silkwitch’s work.”
With a jerk, she separated from me.
“Just read it,” she said.
Another knock sounded through the hall before I could protest. With a brief glance to Noé, I folded the envelope in half and stowed it in my bodice, passing Mireille off to Bernard to be escorted to the dinner table.
The doors swung open. This time it was not one of my bridesmaids who stood behind them.
Eliot lifted his chin, his eyes finding me from beneath the dark brim of his bowler hat.
He was waiting just past the estate’s threshold, the storm pouring around him, dripping off the umbrella he held aloft.
A crack of lightning in the distance briefly illuminated him; he looked spectral, washed in yellow-white, his gaze widening to absorb the flash.
“Miss Lovett,” he said. “Hello.”
Coming up the drive behind him, her own umbrella in hand, was Clio.
She’d taken her time exiting her carriage, and for good reason—she was dressed in a stunning gown of rich umber, her black hair caught up in a beaded ebony caul, her hands obscured by matching gloves.
Glittering strands crisscrossed her tresses; it looked as though she’d fallen into a dark spiderweb.
The last time I’d seen her, I’d stabbed her in the leg. I let my gaze fall to her skirt as she moved to stand next to Eliot, but her gait seemed steady and altogether unimpaired. If she’d retained any lasting damage from the wound on her thigh, she was covering it well.
“Miss Lavoie,” I said, stepping back to welcome them both inside. “I heard you were injured during your last stay with us. I hope you’re faring well—shall I fetch you anything?” I moved to take her umbrella. “A walking stick, perhaps?”
Her grin was vinegar. “No need, Miss Lovett,” Clio returned as she passed the umbrella to me. “It was only a dog bite.”
Apprehension plucked in my chest. “Is that so?”
“Yes,” Clio said, “a mangy little bitch. Must have gotten in through the kitchens.” She tilted her head inquisitively. “I rather think she should be put down, don’t you?”
Her voice was low; I dropped my own to match her. “Oh, I don’t know,” I replied softly. “I would avoid her, lest she bite you again.”
Our stares collided. By now, Eliot and Noé had gathered around us—when Noé cleared his throat, I came back to myself.
Pivoting away from Clio, I handed her umbrella to a servant, then summoned the butler, who’d just returned from escorting Mireille. “Bernard will see you to the dining table,” I said brightly. “Though I’m sure you both know your way about the house.”
Without further delay, they set off. After the two of them, the rest of my bridesmaids arrived in one steady stream, hurrying through the entrance and shaking the water from their coats like a pack of particularly well-dressed dogs.
Manon was third, followed by Delphine and Nathalie.
Anais and Adélard were last. I avoided the Cloister Master’s eyes on instinct when I went to welcome him, but his found mine all the same.
He looked at me like I was an item at the auction house which had slipped away from him.
I shivered. Both Drakes, it seemed, had a penchant for collecting witches.
Rather than take our meal in the formal dining room, I’d requested that a table be set up in one of Fortblanche’s exterior-facing corridors, where the view of the cliffs and ocean was best. I let Noé take the lead as the two of us, along with Anais and Adélard, made our way there, using the brief window of silence to compose myself.
“Miss Lovett.”
My steps faltered as we neared the dining area. A figure stepped out from where they’d been leaning against one of the wide stone windowsills, their hand already extended to summon me nearer. Eliot.
He looked from Noé to me but did not lower his arm. “A moment, please.”
To my side, I felt my fiancé stiffen. Laying a hand briefly on his wrist, I nodded at him, then moved away from the group toward Eliot.
He waited until the rest of our party was out of earshot to speak again. “Are you all right?”
I stared at him. Eliot’s manner was twitchy; though he was facing me, he kept glancing out the window, rubbing a palm over his jaw as if attempting to massage away some itch.
I was surprised he’d called me over. From our relationship, I knew him to be prideful—there was no shame in it; so was I.
Once he’d fixed on a decision, he rarely turned back, as much out of fear that he’d be caught doubting himself as confidence in his choice.
It was one of the reasons that his leaving me had hurt so much.
But now he’d wavered. Why? “How do you mean?” I asked.
Eliot exhaled. “Noé told me about his father’s plan,” he said, lowering his voice. “I just wanted to apologize.” His eyes flicked away from me again, then came back. “Whatever our disagreements, I would never have let Clio go at you like she did during the Maiden’s Race if I’d known.”
So it was exoneration he was after. That made sense—it must be eating at him, the single strike against his impeccable character.
“But you’re still marrying her,” I replied.
When Eliot frowned but did not deny the accusation, I asked, “How has your business with Lucie been going? I read a rather interesting article she wrote in the papers.”
By his flinch, I knew he was aware of the one I meant.
A Treatise on the Equitable Use of Silkwitches.
Thinking of it made my stomach feel hard and burnt.
“Always ready with a harsh word,” he said.
“I assume it’s proceeding as smoothly as your plan, seeing as Bastian is alive and well.
” He stepped closer, out of the window’s shadow and toward me.
“Enjoying your time with my friend too much to do him in?”
Thunder rumbled over the cliffs. His advance had brought us quite near to one another; on instinct, I tensed, readying myself for the surge of connection which usually unbalanced me in our interactions, but it never came. Maybe it was because we were no longer carrying our coins.
After a moment, I answered him. “More than you know,” I said. Digging the letter Mireille had passed me from my bodice, I held it up in dismissal. “I have to read this.”
Eliot balked. His eyes widened, his lips parting as if he were taking in a possibility he had never before considered.