Chapter Fifty-Four
The Isle d’Eylau was quiet at night.
Marie-Louise and I had been traveling for two days.
We’d departed Cyril’s family estate the evening following my meeting with Eliot, once we’d finished shaping the contours of our plan.
The journey had gone smoothly; now the uneven jags of the capital rose up around us, rows of peaked-roof buildings all turned to sharp teeth in the dark.
The streets were silent, the gloom broken only by the occasional throb of a streetlamp, greasy and yellow above us. Seated across from me in the carriage, the Owl shifted on her bench. Her pale eyes were luminous in the dark, twin lanterns pointed directly at me.
She blinked. “This scheme of yours,” she said. “You’re certain of it?”
I returned her stare. “I’m certain.”
Nodding, she picked her reticule up from her lap and dug into it, angling an object within out of her way.
I did not need to see it to know it was a small pocket mirror, molded in the shape of a rose with delicate silver gilding on the back; she’d been consulting it for the entirety of our journey.
Her brow furrowed as she peered into its depths, her lips pursing in concentration.
Watching her, I inquired, “Still no sign of Bastian?”
She jolted, then looked up. “Not since he departed Fortblanche last night—shortly after Mr. Lear returned to speak with him,” the Owl replied. She set her bag back in her lap, her forehead creasing with mild annoyance. “Wherever he has gone, he’s ensured there are no mirrors about him.”
Nor any doors, I’d wager. Eliot must have delivered my message—likely, the Weaver King had anticipated my return and hid himself somewhere neither I nor any of my allies could reach. Not that I was too concerned.
I knew one girl who could tell me where he was.
“And Noé?” I asked. My voice rose an octave as I spoke his name. I forced it back down, embarrassed.
“Still at his father’s estate,” Marie-Louise answered. She did not appear to have noticed my slipup, or perhaps she was just being kind. “And still healing nicely. His injury doesn’t seem to have resulted in any infection.”
That, at least, was good news. “I’ll need a door.” Focusing, I glanced out the window, then back at her. “How far to Cyril’s family’s apartment?”
“We’re nearly there.” Twisting around, Marie-Louise tapped on the divide to consult the driver.
The carriage swerved; fifteen minutes or so later, we were pulling up in front of a modest but well-maintained townhome in the capital’s fashionable district.
The night air was crisp and earthy when we stepped out of the vehicle, freshly washed with rain.
A maid admitted us inside. The townhome’s primary bedroom stood on its second floor—an expansive, well-furnished suite with a balcony attached.
It was there that Marie-Louise and I headed, locking the entrance behind us and turning our attention to the glass-paned double doors which looked out onto the terrace.
The Owl took my arm as I positioned myself in front of them, my Wit humming eagerly behind my ribs. “Mr. Alaire has removed many of the mirrors from Fortblanche, but the one in your chamber still stands,” she stated simply. “If you find yourself in need of aid, go there.”
I nodded in understanding. Releasing me, she backed away, but I turned over my shoulder, catching her eye. “I like Cyril, by the way.”
The other silkwitch’s face lit up. Blushing, she smiled. “Isn’t he wonderful?”
“A perfect match.” I returned her grin, then twisted to face straight again. “I’ll be back soon,” I said. “Goodbye, Marie-Louise.”
She gave no reply. Steadying myself, I drew in a deep breath, funneling the whole of my energy into the double doors in front of me.
Darkness clung to their other side; concentrating, I peered through it, imagining a silver thread looped around the exterior knobs.
A glowing path like a stitch in a length of cloth, binding two ends—two places—together.
My Wit tugged. Secure in the connection, I reached forward and twisted the knob—
And stepped over the threshold, back into Fortblanche.
—
Noé’s quarters were empty.
I was standing in the sitting room of his suite, the entrance lying open behind me.
Up ahead, the door which led to his bedroom was also ajar.
Through it, I could see his bed, the sheets pulled back to expose the bare mattress beneath them.
Books littered the floor, interspersed with crumpled sheets of letter paper and cast-off, rumpled clothing; on his nightstand, a silver washbasin stood, a damp cloth draped over its rim.
My heart dropped. Where could he be? A wound like the one Clio had inflicted wouldn’t heal easily—even if he’d received immediate medical attention, Noé should still be bedridden, recovering from his injury. Had Bastian taken him someplace else?
“Better luck chasing after a pack of hounds than hunting her down, if she does not wish to be found!”
My thoughts scattered. A voice broke in from directly outside Noé’s chambers—close, irate, and intensely familiar. I barely had time to position myself near the wall, out of sight from the stair landing, when the door slammed open and my husband appeared.
For a moment, Noé stood frozen in the threshold, one hand gripping the knob, the other hanging, useless, at his side.
There was slight bruising along his jawline, likely from his tussle with Eliot; other than that, though, I was shocked to find that he looked the picture of health.
His black hair was mussed, his cheeks flushed and lively, as though he’d returned from an evening at the shooting range.
A thin sheen of sweat dampened his skin, making his neck glisten.
Our eyes locked. Coming back to himself, Noé swallowed and then—calmly and deliberately—shut the door behind him.
His voice, when he spoke again, was soft. “There you are.”
He said it casually, lowly, as though he’d been expecting me—as if I’d only stepped out for a moment, and he’d been here, patiently anticipating my return. A second passed in stillness; then we were rushing toward each other, colliding roughly together.
His lips were firm. Immediately, his hands found my hips, pulling me toward him, and there was no gentleness in this kiss—no hesitancy or patience or thought. I dug my fingers into the warm linen of his shirt, clutching him nearer as he turned and pressed me against the hard flank of the wall.
It wasn’t until he lowered his mouth to my throat that I remembered Clio’s bullet. I gasped. “Your injury—”
“Healed. Magesilk.” Without pulling his lips from my neck, Noé took my hand and slipped it beneath the collar of his shirt, guiding it to a spot just to the left of his heart.
I tensed at the feel of a row of stitches puckering his skin, the thread unexpectedly chilly beneath my fingertips, like a coil of wire. “It works remarkably quickly. See?”
I did see—in fact, I was rather curious to learn more—but he was cupping my chin before I could voice any further questions aloud. My mind, foolish and pliable, emptied; when I came to my senses seconds later, my left hand was still beneath his shirt, my right one flat against his collarbone.
With effort, I lowered them both. “There is much we need to discuss.”
“Naturally.” I drew in a breath as Noé lifted me up, tucking my legs around his waist and backing me more firmly against the wall. His mouth moved to my ear; I could feel the smirk in it as he spoke, curved against my skin. “Where shall we start?”
“I…” My words were gone—he was too close, my senses overwhelmed by him. Pull yourself together, Lovett. Painfully, I forced my mind to clear.
“Put me down.” My command, this time, was firm. Noé obeyed immediately, setting me back on the ground and retreating a step—though even at a more removed distance, his presence was enough to muddy my thoughts. Deliberately averting my eyes from his, I rubbed at the bridge of my nose.
Gradually, my mind settled. Only when I felt I had a stern hold over my emotions did I risk speaking again. “It was completely ludicrous of you to take that bullet for me.”
In emphasis, I shot him a glare. Noé merely chuckled, shifting to lean against the wall beside me. “Our physician told me the same,” he replied evenly. “I knew there was a reason he liked you.”
He winked as he said it. The collar of his shirt was folded back—pushed wide by my hands as we’d kissed, I realized, flushing—the white-gold glint of his magesilk stitches just visible above the top edge of the fabric.
So close to his heart. Less than an inch of difference, and Clio’s shot would have killed him where he stood by the library doors. He’d be dead.
Reaching out, I touched the stitches, running my finger along their narrow gold spines. “You absolute fool,” I murmured. “Promise me you’ll never do it again.”
Noé’s eyes softened. “My dear Tamerlane,” he said, grinning down at me. “Were you worried about me?”
I dropped my arm. “It’s not funny,” I hissed, looking up at him.
The sight of his injury, the starkness of it, had riled me; I could not stop imagining the moment his body dropped to the ground, his gray eyes closing, blood pooling beneath his wedding suit.
Clio Lavoie will pay for what she did. My determination to seek out the other silkwitch increased tenfold.
No matter if I went to my grave in the process, I would ensure that hurting my husband became a mistake she dearly regretted. “You cannot leave me, Noé.”
My voice wobbled. At the sound of it, all the mirth faded from Noé’s expression.
He gathered me close to him, tucking my head beneath his chin.
His skin was cold, blessedly clarifying; giving in to his embrace, I laid my cheek against his shoulder and wrapped my arms around him, breathing in his icy scent, clean and rousing like a midwinter rain.
“I never will, Lovett,” he muttered into my hair. “I never will.”