Chapter Five
The road to Fortblanche was narrow, as sun-bleached and winding as a strand of a silkwitch’s hair.
Beyond the thin sliver of it that I could see through my carriage window, the Isle d’Eylau’s cliffs tumbled uninterrupted down to the ocean, a near-vertical drop, like the knife-ridge of a man’s nose.
Waves frothed at the base of the rocks, their unceasing surge seeming to grow more fevered, more agitated with each meter I traveled, as if angered by my departure.
I watched as far below me, a white-capped swell swallowed a boulder, then gradually retreated, leaving behind a lacy overlay of salt.
While I couldn’t yet see it, I knew that somewhere above the roof of my carriage, Fortblanche’s White Terrace extended weightlessly out over the cliffs like a bird’s wing, observing the tides in proud defiance of the tug of the ocean below.
Local myths held that the structure was kept aloft only by Weaver magic, that when Fortblanche had first been built, centuries ago, ninety-nine of the most beautiful silkwitches in Balmoore had given their hair to enchant the solid granite, which at noonday was said to shine white-gold from the magesilk woven into its walls.
According to the legends, the stone would never crumble, never crack, so long as a man of Alaire blood dwelled at the heart of Fortblanche for it to bearup.
A pity that the enchantment did not extend to safeguarding those who walked the great house’s halls.
I imagined a shape darting past the glass of my window, struck from the sky and racing toward the blue maw of the water below.
Ophelia Lear’s descent would have been so swift, her end so certain as it raced up to meet her.
If I let my mind blur, I could almost hear the echo of her scream in the wind—tumbling after her like a long tail, barely out of her mouth before she hit the rocks.
My tongue sat thick and heavy in my mouth. The sea was an open grave; it would not have been filled by her. It would have room enough for me.
I pictured it: thump against the current.
And then the slow sink of my body, down toward nothingness, the very pit of the world.
Twisting my gloved hands in my lap, I looked away, my movement causing my seatmate’s eyes to jump in my direction.
Aside from a brief exchange when Eliot’s coach had arrived at the address I’d given him, he had not spoken to me for the whole of our ride together.
He hadn’t even bothered to help me with my single, shabby traveling case after his carriage had rolled to a stop in front of my doorstep earlier in the morning.
Instead, he’d merely cracked his coach door, his shadow falling through the breath of space like a black velvet cloak as he called out:
“Is your brother in?”
I’d shaken my head, and he’d huffed approvingly, pushing the door open farther.
“Good,” he’d said. Then, in a sharper tone, “Is that all you’ve brought? Where is your dower?”
As he’d spoken, he’d scrutinized my luggage, as if expecting me to undo its latch and reveal another case folded away within. In response, I’d gripped my handle harder. “I have no dower.”
“You—” The word was incredulous, an accusation. “How do you expect to find a husband with no dower?”
“I’ve no idea,” I’d answered, innocently. “I suppose I assumed I’d find a handsome stranger to make a bargain with and pass the problem off to him.”
He’d glared when I smirked, as instantaneous as a reflex.
To the driver, who by then had taken my case from me and was preparing to lash it to a wooden trunk support jutting from the back of the vehicle, Eliot had added, “For the Sisters’ sake, don’t bring that thing with us, Davis.
The make alone will expose her immediately, not to mention the relics I’m sure are packed away within.
” His nostrils flaring, he’d withdrawn into the far corner of the coach, pulling the brim of his top hat lower over his forehead. “She’d be better off wearing nothing.”
Back in the present, Eliot regarded me suspiciously, as if I were a feral animal he’d been trapped in a coach with—a beast he wasn’t quite certain wouldn’t strike him.
Though we hadn’t talked since our earlier exchange, he’d been even testier than I’d grown used to during our journey, shooting me a series of spiked glares every few minutes, as if the mere sound of my breathing provoked him.
The indignant way his gaze had swept over my ensemble—a full navy skirt that nipped at my middle, paired with a crisp white shirtwaist with a frill of ruffles down the front and a matching navy jacket atop it—when I’d first settled on the bench next to him gave me the distinct impression that he’d have ripped my clothes off me and tossed them away along with my suitcase if he could have, were the prospect of my nakedness not even more humiliating to him.
Whether it was nerves over the task that lay ahead of us that had tainted his mood so, or misgivings about our alliance, I knew not; frankly, I had no desire to navigate his thorns andask.
Finally, Eliot spoke. “All right?”
His handsome features were chilly, made sharper and more defined by his irritation, like panes of cut glass. In response, I wrinkled my nose and glanced out at the cliffside, poking distastefully at the nape of my neck.
“Fine. Though I’m not sure why I needed to put this on prior to our arrival. It is horribly uncomfortable.”
Eliot’s eyes flicked toward the back of my head.
Where normally my hair would have hung in loose brunette waves down to the small of my back, it now bounced above my shoulders, gathered up in a fine silver weave that resembled a fisherman’s net.
A braided strap sewn along the top of the netting wrapped around the crown of my head, securing it to my scalp.
To some, the effect might have seemed elegant.
I’d worn the contraption barely an hour, and already I utterly despised it.
Coolly, Eliot angled himself away from me again.
“You’ll have to get used to it,” he said, his tone brusque and wholly unsympathetic.
“It is bad enough that you’re dowerless; you can’t very well waltz into Fortblanche smelling of boiled walnut on top of it.
Your fellow competitors will have been wearing cauls for years now.
It is considered the proper fashion for all well-bred ladies of your kind. ”
I bristled at his flat command. It was true that for the vast majority of silkwitches, protecting one’s hair was tantamount to protecting one’s virtue—as well as their future husbands’ investments.
With so many silkwitch tresses needed to produce a single length of magesilk, losing even a strand meant a noticeable drop in potential income.
To fill the gap, most girls of my kind took care to collect every hair they shed from the time they came into their blessing until the day they wed, when the reserve would be presented to their Weaver spouse in the form of a bridal gift called a dower.
Along with dyeing my hair, I’d tossed my stockpile shortly after moving to the Isle d’Eylau, once it became obvious to me that I stood no chance in the marriage market.
I’d known accepting Eliot’s offer to join the Vainglory would mean readopting habits I’d long ago abandoned—the wearing of a caul, being one.
His open condescension, though…Now, that was a punishment I couldn’t bear.
“Of course,” I said with a smile. “Though I’m sure most other well-bred silkwitches have the benefit of pleasanter company to distract them from their torment.”
Eliot scowled—an impulsive twist of his mouth that broke the cold tranquility of his expression.
The emotion was a relief, balancing the scales that had started to tip to his side in my mind.
In all my dealings with men, I had never targeted the son of a Weaver line before.
In those exchanges, I was forever the beautiful one, the possessor of magic, and it had given me confidence where my status had not.
By contrast, Eliot was Reginald Lear’s son, as close to a god as was to be found within the borders of Balmoore. But he was a boy, too. Perhaps so long as I remembered that, I could keep my footing in this dance of ours.
“You and I have no need of idle chatter,” Eliot snarked. “Any sort of familiarity between us would only hurt our cause, anyway. The others will pick up on displays of fondness and turn them back against you.”
He twisted away, every bit of him seeping utter arrogance, from his silk hat to his dark frock coat—more formal than the relaxed silhouette he’d been wearing during our first encounter.
It rankled me down to my bones. “I have never confused cordiality with fondness,” I answered, my voice hot, before he could turn fully toward his window.
“But fine. If you would prefer to speak only of business, will you tell me what I am to wear this evening—and for the remaining ten days beyond?” I crossed my arms, attempting to restrain my annoyance. “Your driver discarded all my clothes.”
At that, at least, Eliot had the grace to look abashed.
“I had one of my father’s maidservants pack a trunk of Ophelia’s old garments yesterday evening,” he said, the skin of his neck reddening above his ascot.
“It will be delivered to your rooms once we reach Fortblanche.” His stare met mine, then flicked away.
“Our tailor made a guess at your sizes.”
Ophelia again. Even in my own dressing room, it seemed, I would be unable to escape the ghost of Eliot’s sister.
I expected to be disturbed by his admission, was caught off guard when only a dull sort of pity knocked against my rib cage—images of dusty, unworn gowns, trimmed in the finest lace and left to decay on their hangers, rising in my mind’s eye.
I shifted uncomfortably on the cushioned bench beneath me.
“Imagine if you’d cared to share that fact with me when I sat down, rather than insulting my wardrobe and leaving me to wonder whether I’d be forced to steal dresses off the backs of my competitors these next weeks,” I replied to Eliot.
“I might not have spent the duration of this trip despising you.”
Glancing sideways, I was pleased to find that the crimson flush to Eliot’s flesh had spread to his cheeks, his jaw taut as if with surprise. He had not, I guessed, expected me to bite back.
Satisfied, I went on. “Is it just your sister’s clothes I’ve been given?”
His brow creased, uncertainty displacing his startlement. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“You mentioned rooms, just now,” I replied steadily. “Even in a house as grand as Fortblanche, I assume there are only so many guest chambers. Will I be staying in Ophelia’s old quarters, as well?”
Eliot frowned, his expression turning contemplative.
“I hadn’t considered it,” he said, “but…I suppose so. The other maidens are rather particular—they’ll likely have requested to be installed in the same rooms as last year.
” His gaze traveled to mine, lingered. “Even if it is the case, though, you’ll find nothing of hers remaining there.
Noé had her belongings sent back to my family’s home after her death. ”
I hummed but gave no response, my attention turning inward. Eliot’s frown deepened at my silence; I felt his stare trace the lines of my profile as if studying me.
“You’re thinking something,” he said curtly, after a moment. “What is it?”
I hesitated, letting the quiet stretch and buzz for another second before turning to face him fully.
“I am thinking that ours is a partnership, Mr.Lear. And that I do not require your fondness to succeed in this competition, but I shall need your communication from this point onward, or both of us will fail.”
Our gazes locked. Eliot did not answer me immediately, though his eyes never left mine; we sat, wreathed in the thin, wet grayness that pressed against the coach windows, each waiting for the other to speak again.
The middle and index fingers of his right hand drummed against the leg of his trousers as he regarded me, as if he were tapping loose ash from a cigarette.
Suddenly, a rough jerk threw me against the wall of the carriage, the tension dissipating as our vehicle rolled to an abrupt stop.
Whirling, I twisted to peer through my window.
On my side of the coach, there was nothing but that same constant thread of road, the starving ocean beyond it, but, turning to face Eliot, I glimpsed something new: an expanse of slate-colored stone, rising high above us like an extension of the cliffside.
Past it, I saw towering spires, a delicate, skeletal rib cage of buttresses, a terrace like a sweeping white hand, extending palm-up over the distant waves.
At the sight of it, Eliot grinned. “We’ve made it,” he said, shifting to look back at me. His tone was bright, all signs of his sour, brooding temper now absent.
“Welcome, Miss Lovett, to Fortblanche.”