Chapter Fifty-Three #2
“You never would’ve listened to me if I’d told you. Likely, you would have attempted to think up some counter-scheme which would have resulted in you getting killed even quicker. And…why?” Eliot looked at me, incredulous. “To protect you, Lovett. To help you. Why else do I ever do anything?”
The way he said it, it did not sound like a statement of devotion. His tone was as scathing as I’d ever heard it, his shoulders hunched and his chin downturned. It was as if he were admitting to a crime.
A familiar guilt welled in me. I was so tired of this. Of feeling like I was some bad habit he could not stop returning to—a splotch on his impeccable moral record, sinking in further with each attempt to scrub me out.
I shook my head. “So you denied me the truth. But, at least, did you tell my husband of your plan?”
Eliot blinked, as if coming back to himself. “No,” he replied a second later. “Noé would not have understood.”
I scoffed. “He wouldn’t have agreed, you mean.”
Eliot’s scowl came quickly enough that I knew it was a point he’d made to himself, too.
“How noble,” he mocked. “He wouldn’t have agreed—he would have let you go to your death, in other words.
Is that the marker of a fitting husband?
” He snorted derisively. “Bastian told me of the affection between you two. You think you care for him, Lovett, but you do not know him. Noé is reckless—thoughtless. In the end, he will always let you down.”
Yet when Clio’s bullet had come, it had been Noé who’d stepped in front of it, not the boy speaking to me now. “And you will not?” I challenged.
“I would bargain with the archdevil himself if it meant assuring your safety,” Eliot spat back. The distance between us had all but closed; we stood together amongst the herbs, the sea breeze whipping us as we argued. “I would debase myself utterly to be with you.”
“Yes, you would bargain,” I returned. “You would debase yourself. You would do anything except allow me control over my own fate.” My voice cracked; my chest felt heavy.
“Admit it, Eliot,” I said weakly. “This has never been a fair partnership. I have been your protégé, your weapon, your prize. But I have never been your equal.”
Eliot’s face crumpled. “Don’t say that,” he murmured.
At once, all the resentment seemed to drain from him; he fell back, swiping at the bridge of his nose.
“You’ve been as much of an equal as I can make you,” he picked up again a second later.
“Is it fair that my sister was killed while your sibling lives? Is it fair that I have been forced to spend my lifetime enduring this world—the world of Weavers and silkwitches—and you have just stepped foot in it? Is it…?” his voice broke.
“Is it fair that you left me for my best, my only, friend?”
My heart gave a tug. “I did what needed to be done,” I rebutted. “I knew you would not understand it.”
He looked at me. His features were raw and unguarded; it was as though he’d laid down a sword. “As did I,” he said softly.
A thrill went down my spine. My anger gave out; suddenly, I felt incredibly weary, and very sad.
I pivoted. “Where is Clio now? Why has she not been taken to the jailhouse?”
Eliot remained as he was for a moment, regarding me with an inscrutable expression before answering.
“Bastian protected her,” he replied. “In the public’s view, you’re a murderer, remember.
He is claiming that Clio fired on you to keep you from escaping Fortblanche, but you shoved his son—your husband—in the way. ”
Even the accusation hurt. I could still hear the sound of Clio’s bullet as it tore from her pistol, the booming clap and the devastating stillness that had followed. To claim that I’d inflicted that wound on Noé…
My mouth dried out. From his position farther up the shell path, Eliot looked back at me. “Lovett,” he said. I glanced up. “Answer me honestly this time. Do you love him? Him, and only him?”
I held his stare. There was no point in lying; the truth was right there, laid bare in my gaze. “Yes,” I whispered. “I do.”
Eliot flinched. “Why?” was all he asked in response.
Strangely, it was Anais’s words which came to me. “Because he lets me break things.”
Silence followed. For a minute, there was only the rush of the wind through the lavender bushes, the distant murmur of the sea.
“You and I are too similar,” I continued before Eliot could speak. “We keep too many secrets. The nearer we are to one another, the more we will wound each other, no matter whether our intentions are to harm or help.”
Eliot’s jaw ticked. His gaze was flat, steady; for the first time in a long time, I felt we were standing on equal ground.
I cleared my throat, aware of the moisture beginning to sting at my eyes. “Where will you go from here?” I asked. “What shall you do?”
Eliot observed me a second longer. His features, too, had softened; there was a glassiness to his stare, as if he were holding back tears.
“I’m not sure,” he replied. “Bastian knows I’ve gone looking for you—he’ll likely seek me out when I return to the Isle d’Eylau.
I’ll tell him whatever story you wish me to, though it will be only a matter of time until he finds the truth in my mind.
After that…” He sighed. “Who can say. Clio wants me to go into politics, like my father. To take up for silkwitch rights, since Lucie will not.”
I nearly smiled. Politics. There was something fitting about the notion. He was always looking for someone to argue with.
“And you?” Eliot asked.
My focus returned to me. When I spoke again, my voice was hard. “I have business with the Weaver King.”
Eliot appeared to anticipate the response. He smirked slightly, his curls stirring in the breeze. “My intention was to help,” he said abruptly. I peered at him, curious. “It may not matter, but—with you, it was always to help.”
It took me a beat to place what he was referring to. The nearer we are to one another, the more we will wound each other, no matter whether our intentions are to harm or help.
My chest squeezed. “So was mine.”
Neither of us seemed to know what to say next. Nodding, I started back toward the house—then, only a few seconds later, paused. Glancing over my shoulder, I spoke again.
“Tell Bastian that his plan has failed,” I said. “And to Clio…”
I hesitated, debating.
“My message is this: She took her shot, and missed,” I finished after a beat had passed. “Now I’m coming to take mine.”