Chapter Seven #2
Though I might have been mistaken, I thought Sybil’s attention sharpened at the mention of Eliot’s name, the close graze of her stare making me feel like a field mouse watching an owl tighten its circle high above.
“How sweet,” she purred, smirking when my brow furrowed in response to her words.
“Of Mr.Lear, that is. Though I do find a spot of tragedy now and then makes a young lady most intriguing.”
She stepped closer.
“Perhaps we shall become friends.”
Without warning, she darted forward, her hand closing firmly over mine.
I stifled a cry as, at the contact, an intense, needling sensation overcame me, like my fingers had been submerged in an ice bath.
A scream pushed upward in my throat. Her grip was tight and unrelenting, the buzzing reaching down to my bones, rooting in their marrow, and—
And then she was releasing me, drawing neatly away again.
“Curious,” she said softly. Her expression was inscrutable, as if she had retreated into herself, her pretty features creased in concentration. “Quite curious.”
I barely heard her. Blood pounded in my ears as I flexed my hand, testing my tingling nerves.
Already, the violent, chilly hum was retreating, like a gust of cold wind now spent.
Had it been anxiety that had produced such a visceral response in me?
Something more? I felt strangely violated, like someone had peeled back my flesh, run their nail over the pink wet of my muscles.
Since Sybil came into her blessing, Lucie has kept her like a secret. Eliot’s answer, when I’d inquired about the other maiden’s Wit—now it rose to my mind again. Whatever my fellow silkwitch’s secret was, I couldn’t help but wonder if I’d just fallen victim to it.
Across from me, Sybil seemed to shake herself free of her reverie, her face brightening once more.
“I must be going now,” she chirped. “I will try to make a noise to alert you when they summon me for the presentation, if you wish to snoop in my room later.” Her lips twisted coyly.
“That is what you were planning to do, is it not? Even orphans are not illiterate, Miss”—her gaze darted meaningfully to the pouch still clutched in my other hand—“Cecilia Lovett.”
She didn’t wait for a response before she turned away, crossing to her door and opening it without glancing back. It clicked shut behind her—unlocked, this whole time, I noted dully—leaving me alone in the hallway again.
Shivering, I ducked into my own room, hanging the cloth pouch around the interior doorknob.
The space inside was luxurious and restrained—a four-poster bed, veiled by a gauzy canopy; a plush yellow rug; a pair of doors set into the exterior wall, leading out to a compact balcony beyond—but I hardly registered any of it.
Moving to the bed, I threw myself into its embrace, letting the coolness of the duvet muffle the hot shriek of my pulse against my sternum.
Pathetic, Lovett. Had I been so softened by the men I’d conned that I’d forgotten what facing a true competitor felt like?
If I was fortunate, Sybil would mistake my stumbling, awkward performance as that of the unsophisticated ward I was pretending to be, rather than that of a girl hiding behind an ill-fitting mask.
Still, I could not allow myself to enter my encounters with the other eight maidens so poorly prepared.
I sat up. Next time, I would be better.
And until then, I had other things to do.
Standing, I took another scrupulous look around my quarters— Ophelia’s quarters, if what Eliot told me about the rest of the maidens retaining their old rooms was accurate.
As he’d cautioned me, the room was pristinely kept and entirely devoid of personality, any evidence of previous occupants long since swept clean.
I drew a breath, placing my hands on my hips.
Most likely, Eliot’s warnings were right: Even if any of his sister’s belongings had been mistakenly left behind after her possessions had been sent back to her family, they would likely be long gone, swept up in the churning tide of guests.
Looking for traces of her a year after she’d died would be as pointless as scouring a washed dish for evidence of the meal that had at one point been served upon it. Unless…
Unless, that was, Ophelia, during her time at Fortblanche, had tucked an item somewhere no one, not even the Alaires’ maids, had thought to look. Unless it had been hidden.
Squinting, I turned away as a beam of watery sunlight shone through the glass balcony doors to glance off the standing mirror in the right corner of the room, its reflected glint abrasive.
My theory was by no means certain; on the other hand, though, it was the only one I had, and I needed to start somewhere.
If I were Ophelia, where would I have kept my secrets?
I tried the bed first. Lifting up the mattress produced nothing except for a strain in my back, nor did poking at the canopy to see if any objects had been stashed on top of it.
Examining the bedside table, the lacquered vanity and its accompanying velvet pouf, and the comparatively sturdier chest of drawers proved equally fruitless, turning up only a few blackened matchsticks and a worn book, which showed initial promise, only to be revealed upon further examination as a slim erotica volume, its pages frayed from use.
Disappointed, I discarded the matchsticks and slid the novel into my bedside drawer for safekeeping.
Perhaps I was thinking too simply. Aside from her Wit—the gift of intuition, if I was recalling what Eliot had told me correctly—I knew little about the girl whose place in the Vainglory I’d inherited.
But I was growing well acquainted with her brother—and Eliot was, though it pained me to admit it, moderately intelligent, despite his many faults.
I reframed my earlier question. If it were his room I were searching, and not my own, where would Ilook?
Kneeling down, I rolled back the heavy saffron rug, exposing the hard granite beneath. Triumph surged through me as, after testing several blocks, one wiggled beneath my hand, the edge of the stone lifting up slightly when I pressed on its opposite side. Loose.
Gritting my teeth, I maneuvered the block out, setting it beside me on the floor. Underneath it was a shallow cavity, less than six inches in depth and only a palm’s length across, like a dark, pitted abscess beneath a tooth. Two items waited inside it.
My pulse thumped faster as, one at a time, I withdrew them.
The first object was a spiraling taper candle, half melted and set into a bronze holder.
It pointed crookedly up at me as I removed it from the hollow, its blackened wick licking against my palm and leaving a dusting of soot.
Grunting in distaste, I examined it briefly, peeling away a curl of wax before setting it aside.
The second item proved more interesting. It was a single sheet of paper, smaller and pulpier than that used for letter-writing, almost as if it had been torn from a book.
Printed on the page was a poem. My heart gave a kick when I saw that a portion of it had been underlined—hand-drawn, inked black lines emphasized a verse near the middle.
To know, always, that I keep you close
As the cherry tree comforts itself with memories of its blooms
Spring immortal, untouched by frost
In the page’s top left corner, an inscription had been added: a single capital O swirled in a graceful loop of ink. My chest tightened at the sight of it. O—Ophelia?
A knock on the door startled me, the poem slipping from my hand in surprise. Moving quickly, I slid the items back into their hiding spot before replacing the stone on top. Kicking the plush rug over it all, I rose and went to the entrance.
Behind the door stood a pair of servants, holding a formidable trunk between them. The taller of the two ducked his chin in greeting, his throat bobbing as he spoke. “Your belongings, miss.”
I stood aside to let them by, watching on as they shuffled through the entrance and deposited the gleaming leather behemoth near the foot of my bed, then exited mutely back into the hallway again.
Shaking my head in disbelief, I approached the object they’d left behind.
The trunk was massive—the size of at least four of my traveling cases put together—and its bulk almost made the tide of resentment within me, which had been building against Eliot all day, wane.
Until, that was, I recalled the callous, uncaring way he’d had his driver toss out my original clothes this morning, as if they were nothing better than rubbish.
How he’d left me at Fortblanche’s doorstep without a word, to face the mammoth house in front of me all alone.
He was an arrogant, entitled ass—no amount of fancy cast-off gowns would change that. But, at the very least, he was a rich one. That, I could appreciate.
Kneeling down, I unlatched the trunk and threw open its lid, wincing as it hit the floor with a heavy thump.
Inside, a jewelry box of gowns in every imaginable hue were neatly packed away, a plethora of beaded cauls tucked alongside them.
Atop the items rested one more object: a single cream envelope.
I picked it up. Inside was a sheet of letter paper, bare except for the brief message in its center.
L—
I have never played well with others, much less worked well with them. Forgive me—I have grown accustomed to loneliness, and it has made me a poorer companion than I care to admit. I look forward to our partnership.
Yours in collusion,
Eliot Lear
PS: I recommend the blue for this evening. Our tailor felt it would be best suited to your coloring.
Lowering the note, I turned my attention back to the trunk. Beneath where the letter had rested, I could make out the folds of an evening gown, its fabric the deep, sapphire blue of a mountain lake.
Looking at it, I felt an odd sensation lodge in the back of my throat. Our tailor felt it would be best suited… Though I wasn’t sure why, the idea of Eliot Lear describing me to a member of his staff made me feel…Was it shy?
Surely not. I was flattered, that was all, my anger lessened by his apology.
Yet when I raised my fingers to my face, pressing them against my skin, I was disturbed to find that I was smiling.