Chapter One #2
I felt myself tilt, as though on an axis. The boy in front of me was a Weaver—a sorcerer of the exact category which I had spent the past twelve months avoiding. And if one of his kind caught wind of my plot, I could guess the punishment I would face.
The cloisters. I shuddered at the thought of the fortress-like institutions where all silkwitches were banished if they did not succeed in finding a husband by their twenty-first birthday.
From the east side of the Isle, it was possible to see them: blocky stone structures built into Balmoore’s cliffs, peering out like a row of grim faces from the coastline.
The details of what occurred behind those murky windows were for the most part unknown, which made fertile ground for rumors.
The generalities, however, remained consistent no matter the tale: Rows of spinning wheels lined up like soldiers in the dusky gloom, manned by girls only a few years older than I, their hands bloody and pricked from hours spent feeding sheaves of their own shed hair onto the bobbin.
Considering it took a hank of silkwitch hair to form a single length of magesilk, spinning was time-intensive work—not that the women who undertook it had much of a choice in the matter.
For girls with my particular gift, fate was a narrow and unwinding road; either we wed and enter the supervision of our Weaver husbands until the inevitable fading of our magic, or the cloisters would look after us instead.
It should have been, at least, a temporary arrangement.
Unlike Weaver magic, which matured along with its possessor and lasted until the day of their death, a silkwitch’s blessing was a short-lived spark, typically manifesting around puberty and burning out a decade or so later in a girl’s midtwenties, when womanhood had swept away the cold ashes of her youth.
In a depressing, resigned sort of way, one might assume the departure of their gift would come as a relief to the silkwitches kept in the cloisters—once the last of their blessing had been spent and their hair could no longer produce magesilk, their sequestration should have been over.
And yet…along with the nature of their work, there was one other consistency amongst all the stories about cloister girls—one fact which, over and over again, had been proven true. Once a silkwitch entered those shadowed doors, they never came back out.
Returning to myself, I held my smile, murmuring another apology to the boy still waiting in front of me.
Perhaps if I played my part well enough, I could execute my plan and leave him none the wiser as to the reality of what I was.
Still, I’d resided on the Isle d’Eylau for more than a year, and I’d yet to draw the notice of the Weaver lines.
To risk that now, over what would have only been a petty theft, a few more coins to slip into my pocket…
No, in this case, an exit strategy was best.
I’d just begun to dip into a curtsy when I felt a featherlight brush against my elbow.
“Wait—wait a moment, there.” The boy’s fingers pressed into my arm, a gentle urge to rise. Dammit.
“I noticed you earlier, drinking your coffee,” he continued as I lifted my head begrudgingly back toward him. “I’ve been attempting to conjure up the bravery to stumble over to you and say hello for the past ten minutes, but I did not expect my body to obey me so literally.”
He chuckled, gesturing at his lithe figure in its expensive suit as if in self-deprecation.
At his display, my annoyance surged higher.
I knew boys of this kind, knew them well.
Always playing the gentleman, but only shallowly, like a bouquet of flowers wrapped round an iron rod.
Nothing but sweet words and frilly gifts—until you reminded them that you were not a pet they could place on their lap, until you attempted to disobey. Then the carrot gave way to the stick.
I felt my expression become forced. “You are too kind, sir.” My tone was verging on clipped, but I couldn’t help it. With every second that passed, I felt the minute hand of the clock above the bar swing closer to four, its motion like the slap of a ruler against my wrist.
The boy laughed again, taking off his hat and running his fingers through his curls.
“And not the least bit clever, or else you might have smiled at that,” he answered, his eyes glinting with amusement.
Once again, they focused on mine, the catch of his gaze like a lash of cold air, bracing in its intensity.
I drew in a breath. In the depths of his irises, I thought I detected a certain wryness lurking, as if he could see straight through me, as if he knew the harsh truth of my thoughts and was amused by them.
It stilled me, like seeing a shadow thrown in the wrong direction, in disobedience of the sun—an unexpected shift in one’s perceived reality.
Then he spoke again, and all fell back into order. “Pray tell,” he ventured, sidling closer, “what is your name? I thought I’d long since classified all the Diplomat’s angels, but I have been staying here for the past week, and I’ve not seen you before. Are you new to the Isle?”
It was everything I could do to stop my lip from curling.
Every logical impulse that had not yet abandoned me in despair was needling at me to step away and continue safely on to my appointment with Guillaume.
And yet…it was as if he were a puppet whose strings I’d pulled, so closely were his remarks falling in line with my original plan—the scheme that had brought me to the bar to begin with.
All I’d need to do was nudge him along a bit further, and he’d close the trap over his own foot.
Brashness bloomed within me. This boy had taken up precious minutes of my time already. Would it be so unfair of me to steal something of his in return?
My course decided, I let myself soften, ducking my chin as if I found his inquiry flattering.
“I only arrived this morning, sir, along with my mother,” I replied meekly.
“But I must apologize, for she is waiting in our room for me as we speak—I really should be going. Perhaps…” I bit down on my lip.
“If you were to leave your information with the concierge, I could have our maid deliver a letter to you? Mother and I have plans to attend the opera later this week, and as of yet, I have no escort.”
The effect was immediate: The boy leaned back, triumph lighting his face.
“Of course.” He effused, nodding agreeably.
“It would not do to keep a young lady from her mother, now, would it? You may ask for Victor Greaves.” As he dipped in a bow, he caught my left wrist, bringing it to his mouth and pressing a dry kiss to it. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
I hummed tonelessly in reply. My attention had snagged on his watch chain again, which had caught in a slant of light as he bent over and was burning brighter than ever.
Greaves. I did not recognize the boy’s surname; which Weaver line, I wondered, was he descended from?
On impulse, I eyed the metal for a sigil carved into it—something to indicate its origin—but found nothing of the sort.
The boy straightened again, his gaze reaching for mine—his attention unabashed now that I’d given in to him, like a man stepping forward to claim a prize. I snapped my head back up before he could catch me looking.
A brief exchanging of farewells, and I was on my way, rushing across the lobby to the main staircase, which sprouted upward from the center of the room.
The emerald runner was mossy under my feet, softening my footsteps; about halfway up the steps, I paused and glanced back, sensing a pair of eyes onme.
Below me, the lobby’s ecosystem lurched on; ladies laughed, covering their teeth with ruffled fans; gentlemen in fine ebony suits prowled around them like sleek black cats.
Still, amidst the chaos, a single form stood out.
His hands were tucked into his pockets, his bowler hat once more securely tugged over his curls, and his head tilted back to stare up at me.
It almost looked like he was smiling.