Chapter Six
The Weaver King’s mansion was a sprawling mass of connected stone structures so expansive, they took up the entire crown of the Isle d’Eylau’s peak.
Crenellated exterior walls guarded jutting spires behind them, the largest of which extended from the estate’s central tower like a triumphant finger pointed at the sky.
Set into windows, stained glass glittered, the only color in the estate’s otherwise pale face.
It was a spectacle of a building, designed to impress and intimidate; beyond that, though, viewing it, I was overcome by the curious impression that I was gazing upon an original.
As if every other grand house in Balmoore was nothing but a feeble imitation of this one—as if it had existed, always, since the earliest days of history, a central myth from which all others were spun.
It was a struggle to not twist around as we made our way closer to the house’s entrance, to look back at the rest of the Isle d’Eylau, which I knew extended in a long, inelegant sweep behind me.
How insignificant would the dirty, cramped streets where I’d resided until this morning appear from up here, I wondered—if one could even make them out at all?
Like a snarled knot to untangle, perhaps, an ugly mar in an otherwise beautiful tapestry.
No matter , I reminded myself. I did not live there anymore. And if I played my cards well, I would never have to return.
When we arrived at last at the front doors—heavy oak and crossed with black iron bands, like rifle straps across the chest of a soldier—Eliot hesitated.
His fingers hovered above the knocker, several seconds passing in stillness as he seemed to war with indecision, and then he was stepping back, closing his hand into a fist.
“Miss Tamerlane.”
I looked up at him, caught off guard by his use of my true name, and stiffened when I found his attention already settled on me. There was a plaintiveness to his expression that sent a sobering chill down my spine—an honesty, like the pulling-back of a mask.
“I meant what I said in the carriage. I cannot be kind to you, once we pass through these doors,” he stated simply. “It will be worse for you if I am.”
Before I could respond, he took the knocker firmly in hand and rapped it against the wood.
As if pulled by a string, the double doors glided open immediately at his touch, creaking smoothly inward like a sail catching the wind.
Behind them stood a white-haired, uniformed man.
His expression was obscured by the blue interior gloom, but from the crisp suit he wore, as well as the insignia sewn onto his lapel—a golden spinning wheel overlaid with a capital A— I assumed he was the butler.
“Master Lear.” The man lowered into a deep bow. “An honor to receive you, as always.”
Next to me, Eliot chuckled. He’d composed himself again, his transformation so total that I’d have questioned whether I’d imagined his warning to me, could I not feel the shape of his words still pressing against my skin.
“Nicely done, Bernard,” he replied with a lift of his chin. “You’re getting much better at that. A few more tries, and you might manage to keep it from sounding like a threat.”
The butler absorbed Eliot’s barb without reaction. He cleared his throat, his attention swinging toward me. “And this must be your nominee—Miss Cecilia Lovett, I recall,” he said, dipping again at his waist.
I smiled stiffly in reply. Hearing my new moniker was disorienting—my first name shoved awkwardly backward, a false one slotted ahead of it—like holding up a book to a mirror, seeing the text flipped the wrong way round.
“It is my privilege to welcome you to Fortblanche, young lady,” the butler continued, rising again. Turning back toward Eliot, he added, “She is a vision, sir. You have selected well—your father will be pleased.”
I tried and failed to repress a curl of my lip. In the corner of my eye, I saw Eliot’s mouth twitch, as if amused.
“Is Father here already?” he asked the butler. I noticed he’d ignored the man’s compliment, though I doubted it was for my sake—in all likelihood he simply wished to avoid praising me in return.
The butler nodded. “Taking tea with the master in the library,” he replied. “Shall I bring you and the young lady there? Mr.Reginald has been eager to meet her.” He moved as if to lead us inside, but Eliot shook his head.
“Miss Lovett will need time to settle in before the commencement of the festivities tonight.”
Reaching into the pocket of his trousers, he produced a tarnished bronze watch—far plainer than the one he’d used as a lure back at the Diplomat, I noted, and with none of its more glamorous cousin’s Woven gleam.
I pressed my lips together, intrigued. Now that I considered it, I hadn’t seen the latter timepiece since he’d tried to force it on me, just after I’d agreed to his bargain over a week ago.
Perhaps, I thought, he’d been embarrassed by my rejection of his gift and was deliberately avoiding bringing it around me.
Frowning at his timepiece, Eliot motioned toward the butler. “Will you direct her to her chambers, Bernard? Ensure she has everything she needs. As you know, Noé wishes for them to feel comfortable during their stay.”
Them. The term smarted, like a flick to the wrist, though I didn’t want it to.
I stared straight ahead as, without a parting word, Eliot strode through the doors and into the shadowed entry hall, leaving me alone with the butler.
Lacking a common link to bridge the gap between us, we eyed each other awkwardly, like a pair of startled deer.
“Well then, miss,” the butler said, clearing his throat. “Come along.”
Extending his hand, he beckoned to me. His gloved fingers were colorless, almost spectral in their milky grasp, and for a moment I could only regard them, frozen.
I was suddenly aware of the familiar open air to my back, in contrast with the chilly unknown ahead of me.
It felt like a choice, somehow, like a parable torn from a children’s tale: Cross the threshold and enter the cold, the dark, or turn back, toward light. Safety.
I did not turn back.
I drew in a breath and stepped inside.