Chapter Seven
The butler did not wait for me to follow him.
Once past the entry hall, he moved through Fortblanche on quick, silent feet, fading into the gloom until only his shock of white hair remained visible.
It was all I could do to keep my gaze on his retreating back and my path certain, the grandeur of the house around me reduced to a blur on my either side.
I did manage to catch some things. Like its exterior, the inside of Fortblanche was primarily stone, its floors a seemingly endless spill of wide granite blocks so smooth, they appeared soft to the touch.
Slim lancet windows draped curtains of drowsy gray light throughout the corridors while above them, larger stained glass traceries depicted scenes from what I could only presume was Alaire family history.
I thought I spotted the imposing form of Bastian Alaire amongst the procession of raven-haired, sharp-featured men, though it was hard to tell, generation after generation of Weavers brooding out at me like variations on a theme.
I let my gaze linger on a particularly stern-looking figure, preserved in shining brilliance above a window farther up the hall.
The craftsmanship was astonishing, even more so when I considered the sheer number of portraits on display, extending like a line of statues into the unknown.
What sort of wealth, I wondered, would it take to fund a collection such as this?
I understood now why Bastian Alaire had been given the nickname of Weaver King—these halls, this house, seemed to demand such a title, as if any lesser man would sink beneath the weight of its walls.
A draft stirred in the corridor, and for a second, I could almost imagine that it was his breath, could hear a voice whispering soft and low. I see you.
Moving faster still, the butler led me deep into the house, up a narrow set of stairs and into a long, gallery-style corridor, where he bade me a brief farewell and deposited me, then vanished back into the estate.
Alone, I paused, studying my surroundings.
The left side of the hallway I was standing in was open, composed entirely of a proud row of double arches overlooking the green burst of an enclosed garden far below them.
Along the corridor’s other wall, a line of pale yellow doors extended all the way to its end.
I shivered in the damp mist filtering in through the arches, stepping toward the row of doorways.
I could make out the one that belonged to me easily—the butler had at least been gracious enough to point it out before he fled, but more telling was the tasseled velvet pouch that hung from the doorknob, embroidered with my new name: Cecilia Lovett , stitched in looping silver thread.
It was identical in size and shape to the ones that dangled from the rest of the doors. A welcome present, perhaps?
Striding over, I slipped the pouch from its knob and loosened the marigold ribbon that held it closed. Inside was a tight scroll of paper, tied with another scrap of velvety fabric. A fountain pen rested alongside it, its nib glistening darkly like a poisonous thorn.
Apprehensive now, I hung the pouch back on my knob and undid the tie on the scroll, skimming its contents briefly.
The undersigned contestant agrees to adhere to host’s terms of privacy for the duration of their stay…
The undersigned shall not disclose any events that occur within the bounds of host’s estate to the public…
The undersigned agrees to willingly and gladly participate in all tests extended to her, as well as to provide any additional materials required by host…
A contract. My stomach soured. So this was how the Alaires had managed to keep such a tight lid on the identities of the competing silkwitches last year—the chosen maidens must have been sworn to silence, just as I was being asked to.
I supposed it was not too shocking of a development, all things considered; still, as I read the paper over again, I felt a thrum of anxiety in my chest.
The undersigned shall not disclose any events…to the public. What, I wondered, was the Weaver King so frightened of Balmoore’s citizens finding out?
Dropping the scroll back into its pouch, I went to open my door, then hesitated, my gaze sweeping over the wide hallway before me—quiet, and completely empty.
The butler had mentioned, prior to his departure, that the vast majority of my fellow maidens had not yet arrived; specifically, my instructions were to rest in my room until six o’clock, when all ten competing silkwitches would be summoned one by one for our initial presentation to Noé and his judges, and following it, an introductory ball.
An idea bloomed rashly in my mind. The rest of the maidens might not have made their way to their quarters yet, but surely some of the more moneyed ones had sent their luggage ahead, to await them in the emptiness.
How simple would it be to take advantage of their absence and peek behind their doors while they were away?
Whether I found information pertaining to Ophelia amongst their belongings or not, I was likely to uncover something —a secret vice, perhaps, or else evidence of a vulnerability, hidden like a wound behind armor.
Any of it could be used as a tool. And I had never been one to let a good tool go to waste.
My fingers itched, my Wit thrashing eagerly against my ribs. Without my commanding it, I felt my arm reach out—
“I believe you have the wrong one there, dear.”
The voice was a brand, pulled hot from the fire—I whipped around, my hand pressing instinctively against my chest like a chastised child’s.
Near the opposite end of the corridor, a slim figure was peeling from the protective cradle of the arch they’d been leaning against, obscured by the stone.
A girl. Viewed against the vastness of the hall, she was small—diminutive, even—her body a pale wisp crowned by a blaze of rich russet hair.
Her tresses, I noticed, were gathered in a caul like mine—the netting white rather than silver, woven with silk rosettes—and she wore a high-necked lace blouse with a corseted overdress atop it, cloth buttons trailing down its front in an orderly line to her middle.
She smiled at me as she approached, and by the wink of her teeth, the knowing curve of her blue eyes, I understood that she had seen it all—seen me go toward my door, leave it be. Turn to hers.
For several paralyzing seconds, shame threatened to incapacitate me. My nails dug anxiously into the little cloth bag in my hand, my finger pricking against the tip of the fountain pen within—and then I saw my false name, stitched like a lifeline into the fabric, and I slipped into my disguise.
“F-forgive me,” I stammered out, bowing my head meekly. “I must have gotten turned around. They look so similar—”
The unfamiliar silkwitch waved her hand, stopping a few paces away from me. “It is no issue at all,” she replied. Her voice was high and full of breath, like birdsong. “I love to be useful.”
Her grin widened, sly and catlike. Abruptly, she stuck her ungloved hand out, bridging the distance between us.
“Sybil Dabos,” she stated crisply.
Sybil. My chin jerked up, my eyes widening as I took her in anew.
So this was Lucie Dabos’s daughter—the silkwitch so shrouded in mystery that even her Wit remained a secret, whom Eliot had explicitly instructed me to avoid.
Disappointing him already, then. After his general prickliness in the carriage, the thought did not bring me nearly as much guilt as it should have.
Registering my reaction, Sybil pressed her lips together. “Ah,” she remarked. “I see you know Mother.”
She sighed daintily, tossing her head back before I could respond.
With the drizzling rain acting as a fog all around us, daylight was little more than a hazy suggestion; even so, whatever reply I might have gathered went silent as the sun’s pale light moved over Sybil’s hair, setting her locks ablaze with a subtle iridescent glint.
I stilled. So this was what it was like, to face another of my kind. I’d encountered other silkwitches before, of course, but after so many months hiding away from girls like me—of pretending I wasn’t a girl like me—my memory, it seemed, haddulled.
Being confronted with Sybil so unexpectedly—with her hair, as luminous and shifting as moonlight, her preternatural radiance—I could almost understand why the general population insisted we be assigned a Weaver to mind us.
“Yes, as if I didn’t do enough damage to the family name by attending the Alaires’ little breeding contest last year, I had to come back for more,” Sybil said dolefully.
“Mother was furious when the invitation came, of course—tried all sorts of bribery to convince me to bow out. But the problem with mothers is you cannot marry them, can you? And however she wishes to pretend otherwise, as a silkwitch, my predicament is clear: I must find a Weaver husband, or come twenty-one, I will rot in a cloister.” She clicked her tongue reproachfully.
“Quite the blessing our gift is, isn’t it? So, naturally, I had to return.”
Her gaze narrowing on me, Sybil tilted her head.
“And you—how does your family feel about you beinghere?”
At her inquiry, a memory unfurled: Eliot’s carriage rolling away from the capital’s lower quarter this morning, with me inside it and my brother none the wiser. I hadn’t even said goodbye.
But no—he was not my brother anymore. At the very least, not for the next ten days.
“I am sorry to say I have none, miss,” I answered after a moment. “I was the ward of Mr.Elio James, but he passed some months ago now. His great-nephew, Mr.Eliot Lear, took pity on my situation and nominated me for the Alaires’ competition in the hopes that I may reverse my poor fortunes.”