Chapter Two #2
Though I wished to, I couldn’t entirely blame my sisters for their ferocity.
All of us, no matter how romantic our aspirations, had the same goal: to avoid the cloisters, and a husbandless twenty-first birthday, at all costs.
Silkwitches were rare, but Weavers were rarer still—and unlike my kind, sorcerers’ gifts were inherited, not bestowed at the Envies’ random discretion as ours were, meaning there were only ever so many Weaver lines to fight over.
All in all, I was tossed like a fox from a henhouse from the very first ball I attempted to attend, told to sell my wares at the city market if I was so eager to put myself on display.
It was then that Mrs.Clemmens approached me.
Like me, Mrs.Clemmens had been a guest at the gala I’d been dismissed from—but unlike me, she had been invited. I had tensed when her lace-gloved hand caught my arm as I hurried away in shame down the street, certain that she had followed me to mete out some punishment decided on by her flock.
She’d done nothing of the sort. Instead, she’d offered me a job.
From the fifth floor, I made my way leisurely back down to the Diplomat’s lobby.
If I moved too swiftly, there was always the chance I would arrive back at the bar and discover that Victor Greaves had not yet left it—a complication I wished to avoid grappling with if I could—but when I reached the lobby staircase, my former companion’s lanky figure was absent from the huddle of revelers below. Good.
Slipping into the crowd, I walked in the direction of the concierge’s desk, positioned to the far right of the great room. Behind it stood a bespectacled man, short and balding, squinting at a sheaf of papers spread in front of him.
Approaching, I laid my gloved hand on the oiled surface of the desk, and the man glanced up.
“Good evening, sir,” I said when he met my gaze.
“I believe some information has been left here for me—it should be from a guest by the name of Mr.Victor Greaves. I’m afraid I was not able to give him my name in return, however… ”
Trailing off, I bit my lip as though embarrassed by my own lack of foresight.
My heart twisted when, rather than softening into the gentle smile I’d hoped for, the concierge’s mouth dipped with a frown, his hand reaching up to jostle his spectacles as if in an attempt to see me more clearly.
I felt, rather than saw, the beat of the setting sun on the back of my neck, warming my skin like a predator’s breath; I resisted the urge to reach up and tug a strand of hair from my bun, ensure that none of its distinctive silkwitch gleam was shining through.
Stop, Lovett. You’ve only just dyed it. Don’t draw attention to yourself.
Forcibly, I tucked my worries away. In the span of the past year, I’d mastered the art of separating myself from my silkwitch-ness—had spun my illusion so completely that even I, at times, failed to see through it.
Yet in moments like this, the threat of what I was came back to me clearly.
I saw, like frost gathering on a window, all my possible ends: the knife, the Weavers, the cloisters.
“Not to worry, miss,” the concierge assured me, and my panic shattered into relief.
“Mr.Greaves told me I’d know you when I saw you.
He’s instructed me to inform you he may be written to in room fifteen and has left you his schedule for the week.
” Fumbling around on his desk, he handed over a sturdy piece of letter paper covered in black scrawl.
“If miss wishes it, the Diplomat would be happy to recommend a collection of the Isle’s must-visit sights.
Our theater district is the pride of the nation, you know—”
I took the sheet of paper from him, cutting him neatly off. “That won’t be necessary. Is he in at the moment?”
The concierge’s lashes fluttered behind his spectacles as he blinked, evidently taken aback by my bluntness. “Ah, no,” he answered a second later, collecting himself. “Mr.Greaves stepped out a quarter of an hour ago for supper. Would you like to leave a message for him once he returns?”
His fingers drifted toward the fountain pen lying on his desktop, but I shook my head. “That is all right for now. Thankyou.”
Without waiting for any further inquiries, I gave him an appreciative nod, then turned on my heel and headed back the way I’d come, toward the stairs.
As I passed by a towering potted fern near the far side of the lobby, I slowed, glancing briefly in the direction of the concierge desk.
The bespectacled man was now assisting another guest; when I saw that his attention was elsewhere, I crumpled the schedule he’d given me neatly in my fist and dropped it into the pot.
I wouldn’t be needing it.
It had always seemed like a cruel joke to me that the Envies, after blessing us silkwitches with magic, forbade us from using the vast majority of it ourselves.
Only Weavers were taught the process by which our hair could be spun into magesilk.
Until the day we wed, our power was as remote to us as an underground spring; our duty lay in keeping it pure, safeguarding it for our future husbands’ use, but never did we drink from it ourselves.
And yet as if granting us a concession, the Envies did allow each silkwitch one special talent.
A singular, magical Wit, unique to each girl, no more than the supernatural equivalent of a card trick but occasionally useful.
Popular lore held that the nature of a silkwitch’s Wit was a reflection of her inner soul, her deepest self; during my brief time on the Isle d’Eylau, I’d heard of a girl whose Wit allowed her to always find her way home again, no matter how lost she became, and another who could tell a liar by the hue of their shadow.
It was simple, surface-level magic, nothing like that which the Weavers were capable of, but nevertheless, silkwitches valued their Wits with their lives.
They were the only part of our blessing that was ours and ours alone.
As for myself, I’d always wondered what my Wit said about me. For my goddess-given talent was this: Locked or unlocked, I could open any door.
This time, I stopped on the fourth floor.
Much like the hallway leading to the Pierces’ suite, this corridor was deserted, the setting sun painting the walls in glowing shades of orange like the subtle hum of candlelight.
I navigated the length of it with ease, stopping before the door bearing the golden number 15 .
My heart thumped, anticipation speeding my pulse.
With the money I made from my work, there was no need, really, for me to dip into criminality in this way.
I did not have to steal from the rich, from the pockets of men who ogled me.
But, Sisters help me, sometimes, after a day of posing and flirting and laughing, I grew tired of being a pretty thing. Of being looked at.
Sometimes, I wanted to own the pretty thing.
Taking a deep breath, I steadied myself, then called out experimentally, “Hello? Mr.Greaves?”
There was no answer. I called out once more to be sure; then, taking the doorknob in hand, I stepped closer and gave it a twist.
The door swung open easily, laying the room beyond bare.
The only issue was, there was already someone inside.