Chapter Fifty-Two
For a long while, I slipped in and out of existence.
Dark infinities circled overhead. I was back in the tunnels, being dragged along a path toward the cloisters—no, I was in a carriage, Noé seated across from me, burning away the night with the lit ember of his cigarette.
Lowering it, he looked at me. His eyes were like pieces of the sky; suddenly, I could have sworn I’d known them since childhood. Had glimpsed them in every gray cloud that rolled past the window of my family’s cottage, every iron streak of rain.
He cocked his head. I heard his voice, though his mouth did not move, vibrating through me as he stubbed out his cigarette against the window. Forgive me. I know you think it a disgusting habit.
His fingers were bare. He was not wearing his engagement ring, I saw; neither was I. The jewelry had vanished, as surely as if I’d never donned it in the first place.
My lips were sealed shut. I sat in silence as the carriage drove on, ferrying us both into the blackness, the connection between us shattered like we were two strangers, as yet unmet.
—
A voice. I sensed it more than I heard it, like an object wrapped in wool, rubbing roughly against my consciousness.
Murky depths swam above me; through them, I could make out the sound of two people murmuring to one another, distant and warped as if their conversation were occurring on the other side of a fogged mirror.
I swam toward the noise. Light filtered gradually into my vision, my mind pulling itself out of the muck—and then, suddenly, I was opening my eyes, death slipping from my shoulders like a skin I had shed.
I was lying in a bed. Around me, a well-appointed, cheerful room unfolded.
A gentle breeze stirred dainty lace curtains, the open windows beyond them displaying a view of the Balmoorish coast. Inside, vases of wildflowers brightened the room, placed beneath an alarming number of mirrors which lined the walls like gape-mouthed soldiers, ogling me from their posts.
Sitting next to my bedside was a figure. Reality crashed back over me at the sight of them. I whipped my arm out, grasping on to their wrist.
“Sisters—” Anais gasped. Her face contorted in irritation as she ripped her arm away from me. “He’s alive, dammit. Are you going to do this every time you wake?”
I’d woken before? Perplexed, I searched my mind; if I focused, I thought I could make out the faint trace of memories—snatches of conversations similar to this one, slivers of this same room—but they were as vague and undefined as smears of jam on a plate.
Still. That revelation mattered little in comparison to the other one Anais had imparted to me. He’s alive.
Noé, alive. It was impossible. I’d seen him, hadn’t I?
Suspended in death beside me, embarking on that strange carriage ride through the impenetrable night, toward some dark and unknown country.
I’d heard the sound of that bullet. But…
I was here now. Somehow, I’d survived my wedding day, had clawed myself out of Fortblanche and to safety.
Could that mean he had, too?
Sitting up, I removed the damp cloth which I now noticed had been placed on my brow. I didn’t know how long I’d been asleep, but my entire body still ached from the use of my Wit. The pain was duller now, an iron pang nestled within my bones. “How do you know?” I asked.
Anais frowned. “What?”
“How do you know”—I coughed, my voice a croak—“that he’s alive?” I finished.
Clarity rippled across the other silkwitch’s expression. Leaning back on her stool, she nodded toward the far corner of the room—where, I now processed, a second figure was seated. “Oh,” Anais said dismissively. “She saw it.”
I turned on my pillows. Curled in an armchair, her knees tucked primly beneath her, was a pale-skinned, diminutive girl, undoubtedly the owner of the other voice I’d heard.
Her blond hair gleamed in the sunlight, piled in a messy knot and secured with a silver comb atop her head.
Still, her eyes were her most distinctive feature: so large they threatened to usurp the rest of her face.
An exhale slipped from my lungs. The plethora of mirrors in the room suddenly made perfect sense. “Marie-Louise.”
The Owl smiled at me. “Hello, friend.”
A knot of emotion caught in my throat. How long had it been since I’d last seen the other witch?
Weeks, at least—since the day I’d called to ask for her recommendations on which of my bridesmaids to interrogate.
I’d meant to follow up with her afterward, but between the other silkwitches’ threats on my life and the challenge of solving Sybil’s murder, and all that had passed between me and Noé… I’d simply forgotten.
My heart squeezed. Until now, I hadn’t realized how desperately I’d missed her.
Blinking rapidly, I addressed Anais again.
“How did you know to go to her?” I didn’t think the fair-haired silkwitch was aware of my friendship with the Owl.
Our interactions during the Vainglory had been rare, and Bastian had rescinded Marie-Louise’s invitation to be a bridesmaid after the silkwitch had refused his offer to kill me, meaning she hadn’t been around in recent weeks, either. Had Anais guessed at our closeness?
But the other girl shook her head. “Marie-Louise came to us,” she corrected.
“Through the mirror in the hotel room you brought us to—frightened Manon half to death. Her husband’s men brought us here from the Isle.
” Wrinkling her nose, she frowned at me.
“You snore in your sleep, by the way. And kick.”
I paid her criticisms no heed. Through the mirror. I hadn’t realized the Owl could travel via looking glasses as well as peer through them—impressive. I dwelled on the notion for only a moment before another one of Anais’s words struck me. “Husband?”
Alarmed, I glanced toward Marie-Louise. As though sensing the path of my thoughts, the other girl shook her head, amused. “It is all right,” she said soothingly. “Cyril knows the truth about our kind and his. He did not bind me.”
He wed her, but he did not bind her? The two concepts did not follow. “Why not?”
The Owl shrugged. “We considered it and decided we did not wish to do it that way.”
She stated it as if it were obvious—the most natural thing in the world. We…decided we did not wish to do it that way. I nearly laughed. Of course. Why hadn’t I realized it could be that easy? That all my striving, all my scheming aside…
Perhaps change could be as simple as two people agreeing to make it.
On the stool next to me, Anais crossed her arms. The motion drew me back to her, reminded me of the promise I’d made, to warn her of the origin of the Weavers’ powers before her own marriage to Adélard. I hadn’t gotten the chance to before our feast descended into chaos; was now the time?
At my notice, the other silkwitch rolled her eyes. “The Owl already told me the truth,” she said in a dry tone. “No need to enlighten me.”
Had she? I turned toward Marie-Louise. “All of it?”
The Owl nodded. “She and Miss Blanc had questions after I arrived through the mirror,” she replied. “It seemed easiest to start from the beginning.”
Of course they would have. Both Marie-Louise and I had displayed powers which vastly exceeded the supposed limits of our Wits—if I were Anais or Manon, I would have been curious, too. “How long have you known?” Anais asked me.
“Since the end of the Vainglory,” I answered honestly. “It’s why I wanted to speak with you before your wedding day.”
Anais’s mouth twitched. I wasn’t sure what had prompted the reaction until she shifted in her chair and said, “That was…kind of you.” She cleared her throat. “To consider me.”
Her expression was soft. Noise in the corridor prevented me from replying.
Without warning, the door to the bedroom swung open, revealing two additional people beyond it.
Manon’s eyes widened as she stepped over the threshold, pupils swollen behind the thick lenses of her spectacles.
“Miss Tamerlane! You’ve woken?” Her gaze flicked to Anais, softened. “You’ve been tending to her?”
Anais had perked up at the other silkwitch’s entrance. She leaned in to the sound of Manon’s voice, all sweetness. “As best I can.”
The tenderness in her tone, as well as the flush which colored Manon’s cheeks at her reply, told me all I needed to know about the state of their relationship.
I turned my chin away, my eyes landing on the second person in the doorway.
Unlike Manon, he was a stranger: a young man, reedy and tan-skinned, with a crop of dark hair and expressive, hooded eyes.
By the plain gold band on his ring finger, as well as the way Marie-Louise’s entire face shone at his appearance, I assumed this was Cyril.
As if in confirmation, he bowed. “Miss Tamerlane,” he said. His voice was crisp and matter-of-fact. “My wife has told me much about you. Long have I desired to meet the girl she has titled her closest friend.”
She was still calling me that, was she? The term did not bother me as much as it used to. Nodding, I replied to him. “And I, you, sir. I see congratulations are in order.”
“Ah, yes.” Cyril’s countenance brightened at my mention of his union. Crossing to Marie-Louise, he laid his hands on her shoulders, peering affectionately down at her. “Am I not fortunate? Is she not the most stunning creature you have ever encountered?”
The Owl preened, her enormous eyes fluttering. I watched her shift in her seat, white-haired and as pale as a specter, and suppressed a smile. She certainly was something.
Still gazing at her husband, Marie-Louise touched his wrist. “Dearest, perhaps our guest would like tea now that she’s woken?” she remarked. Turning to me, she added proudly, “Cyril grows the mint himself, in the garden on our property. He really is quite industrious.”
From the enthusiasm with which she stated it, one would have thought he built the entire house. As Cyril scuttled obediently back into the corridor, I asked, “And where is this property, exactly?”
Marie-Louise watched her husband go before answering.
“Cyril’s family estate,” she said, turning back to me.
“You have been here three days now, along with Miss Blanc and Miss Tremblay, of course. It is quite remote—Audubon, up north, is the nearest city, and even that is a day’s ride away.
Cyril and I felt it would be best for you to have privacy while you are recovering.
” She tilted her chin, her expression darkening.
“You know, in the capital they are saying you killed Sybil Dabos.”
Of course they were. The story did not surprise me in the slightest; if it had been me in Bastian’s place, and him on the run, I likely would have spun the same. “And Noé?” I pressed, unperturbed.
“Remarkably well, considering the gunshot he suffered,” Marie-Louise responded. “His father has confined him to Fortblanche until he heals completely. Eliot Lear has attempted to see him multiple times, but from what my mirrors have detected, he’s taken no visitors.”
My relief was so great, it was like a physical object was lifted from my chest. Noé’s parting words were tucked close to my heart, beating steadily within me. I love you. Don’t forget it.
Don’t forget it. I hadn’t. I wouldn’t.
Abruptly, the door swung open again. Cyril stumbled through, wearing a befuddled expression. His neck was flushed, his chest rising and falling rapidly as though he’d hastened to reach us.
Frowning, Marie-Louise chastised him. “Cyril! You’ve forgotten her tea.”
“Apologies, dearest.” Her husband winced but did not go to her. Instead, he turned to face me, paling when he caught my gaze. “A visitor has just arrived. For you, Miss Tamerlane.”
Anais and I exchanged wary looks. “Bastian?” I asked.
It was the first guess that came to mind—yet in response, Cyril shook his head. “Not him,” he replied grimly. “Eliot Lear.”