Chapter Forty-Eight
The next morning, on the dawn of my wedding day, the Weaver King came to take my hair.
I was seated at my vanity when he arrived. Despite the warm bath Mia had drawn for me upon my return to Fortblanche the prior evening, my face was paler than usual, the white of my skin undercut with blue as though part of me were still locked out in the rain.
The servants had attended to Noé and me separately after we’d gotten back.
I’d spent most of my night in the care of the Alaires’ personal physician, alternately sipping on lukewarm broth and being chastised for my foolishness in walking home through the storm.
When I’d finally been left alone, it was near dawn; I’d lain awake in my bed, reflecting on the events of the past hours.
I love you horribly, Lovett. I’m sorry. I can’t help it.
Bastian appeared behind me, pulling me from my thoughts.
Mia had already combed through my hair, the strands she’d tugged loose as she brushed neatly gathered and bound in a tidy knot to my side.
They would be ferried to the Alaires’ artisans’ workshop, where the hair would be spun into a length of magesilk—the very magesilk which would be placed in a seal after Noé’s and my wedding ceremony tonight, binding us together for eternity.
I’d say my vows, and he’d say his back, the magesilk looped around our ring fingers, connecting us…and then, once the ritual was finished, my magic would be his.
Would be, in theory, at least. In practice, Noé had promised to break his seal once it was forged, destroying the magesilk within and undoing the vow which bound my gifts to him. After last night, I trusted he’d abide by his word.
Mostly.
Lifting the knot of hair from my vanity, Bastian held it in his palm. “Well, my dear, have you made your decision? Which will it be?”
He spoke plainly. Meeting his gaze in the mirror, I answered. “I want a family.”
I held myself still as he rifled through my thoughts. I’d spoken truthfully; deep down, in the guarded, childlike part of my heart which I’d as of yet been unable to crush, I did wish for a family. For acceptance, and connection, and—honestly, I cringed to admit it—love.
I’d always wanted it. What I remained unsure of was whether I desired that family to be his.
After a moment, Bastian stepped back, his hold over my mind relaxing. I wasn’t sure whether I’d passed his examination or not until he slipped my hair into his jacket pocket and asked casually, “Whatever happened to those gloves?”
I frowned at him.
Smiling thinly, the Weaver King expanded, “You seemed quite fixated on tracking down the pair Miss Tremblay lost during my son’s Vainglory. It is unlike you to leave stones unturned.” He tilted his head. “Did you end up finding them?”
My confidence faltered. I’d hoped he’d forgotten about the gloves. “A false lead, as it were,” I replied. “They don’t relate to Sybil’s murder. As you yourself would know, sir.”
He hummed, then—without warning—leaned closer, his left hand sliding beneath the curtain of my hair. I shuddered as he lifted up a section with his palm, holding it so that it gleamed like oil in the morning light.
“Now,” he murmured softly, “think of what we can do with all this.”
A second later, he let my hair drop. Finding my eyes in the reflection, he patted the top of my head once—affectionately, like I was a pet—and said, “Welcome to the family, my dear.”
—
Hours later, I was standing on the final step leading up to the White Terrace. A narrow aisle ran between rows of chairs in front of me, the stone carpeted with lily and rose petals.
Every seat was filled. Arranged around the altar, the bridal party stood—groomsmen on the left, bridesmaids on the right. Strings of bells tinkled where they were draped over the wrought iron archway, interwoven with fresh ivy and additional flower cuttings.
Noé was waiting for me beneath it. He was dressed in white, standing beside his father and Pupil Lucien, the same robed priest who had practiced our vows with us. His head was bowed, but when I stepped forward, he lifted it.
I saw his lips part as he took me in. My gown billowed around me as I walked, the same full-skirted, puff-sleeved horror I’d tried on before, but for the first time since I’d presented myself to him during the Vainglory, my hair was unbound, lying in oiled mahogany waves about my shoulders.
Earlier, Mia had helped me to weave countless star-shaped opal pins through it; now they gleamed in the fading daylight, a night sky cascading down my back.
The altar drew near. I hesitated as my gaze skimmed over Eliot, standing to the left of Noé, his gaze trained on me.
His face was a mask of indifference, his hands clasped in front of him.
Still, when our eyes locked, I heard the question he’d posed to me so long ago, in our little turret room after we’d spent the night together during the Vainglory.
Will you marry him? Will you be his bride?
The time had come to answer it, once and for all. I remained frozen for a moment, studying him, reflecting on our betrayals, his and mine. Then I stepped forward and took Noé’s hands.
The ceremony went quickly. I stiffened when, after the serenades we’d practiced during the rehearsal, a velvet pillow was brought forth.
A single length of gilded thread lay across its center.
The magesilk formed from my hair looked identical to all other strands I’d seen.
I waited for a pang of connection—some intrinsic knowledge that the thread was mine—but all I felt was its absence.
A hollow sensation like a missing tooth—a part of me, now excised and cast out.
Picking it up, Bastian looped the strand carefully around his son’s ring finger, then mine. I shuddered when the thread met my skin, cool and metallic like a coil of wire, but I remained where I was, unbudging.
My vows came first. Standing behind and between us, Pupil Lucien delivered my prompt. “Bride, what do you pledge?”
Silence. Unlike our serenades, I hadn’t practiced these oaths when we’d rehearsed. They were written out and displayed on the pulpit in front of me, waiting to be read aloud.
At my hesitation, Noé’s jaw twitched. His eyes were as calm as ever; staring into them, I read the words he mouthed: Trust me.
I inhaled. “To my husband,” I read shakily, “I pledge myself. May my blessings serve on his behalf, and my power move as his power. All that I am, all I have been given, I bind to him, from now until eternity.”
The magesilk stayed exactly as it was, gleaming in the dusk. Unable to help myself, I glanced down at it. Was this all there was? I wasn’t sure what I’d been expecting, but I’d anticipated—something, as my Wit was leashed to Noé. A sense of loss, even pain, like the harsh snap of a bone.
Instead, it all felt so very…mundane.
Pupil Lucien seemed pleased. Clearing his throat, he went on. “And the groom?”
Noé looked only at me. “I pledge to love her wholly,” he answered. “I plan to make right what wrongs have been done to her, to take her enemies as my own, and her causes as mine. I pledge that from this day onward, she will never stand alone.”
My breath caught. It was not the scripted response.
A murmur went through the crowd. I sensed, rather than saw, Pupil Lucien’s gaze go to Bastian, awaiting further instructions.
After a minute, the priest’s shoulders relaxed. Pivoting away from the Weaver King, he placed one hand on each of our shoulders, gracing us with a benevolent smile.
“And now,” he said, “for the rings.”
Bastian slipped the magesilk from our fingers as they were brought out. Compared to my engagement ring, my wedding band was plain: dull silver, a vining pattern etched within it. I held completely still as Noé maneuvered it onto my finger, bile rising in my throat.
His was far grander. The setting of the ring—silver, like mine, though with a far thicker band—was empty.
I suppressed a wince as, after I’d placed it on Noé’s hand, Bastian coiled the magesilk he’d taken from us in the setting’s cavity, then withdrew something from his suit and touched it lightly to the thread.
It was a jewel: cloudy and opaline, with a toothy, uneven surface. As I watched, Bastian bent over it, whispering a message too quiet for me to hear.
There was a great flash of light. My vision flared; when I could see again, the gem on Noé’s finger was fitted perfectly within the ring’s setting, as if it had fused with the thread below.
The haziness which had originally imbued it was gone.
Now it resembled a deep-sea pearl, ethereal and otherworldly, shining with its own strange interior radiance.
A seal.
A cheer went up as Bastian lifted his son’s hand, showing the ring to the crowd. It was done.