Chapter Eight
It was cold in the receiving room.
In front of me stretched a long gray hall. Tapestries draped from the granite walls in a stiff, evenly spaced procession; between them, tall windows cowered, the sun usurped by an early-evening squall, which spattered against the windowpanes like bullet spray.
I stood, motionless, by the entry doors, flanked by a pair of servants and Bernard the butler, who had appeared, just as promised, a little after six o’clock to fetch me from my room.
As it had occurred, I had not needed Sybil’s signal to notify me of her departure at all; I’d heard, as clear as day, the slam of each door along the corridor as one maiden after another was summoned for their initial meeting with Noé Alaire and his judges, until finally it was my entrance the servants were stopping at, my name they were calling out—
“As I said , Miss Lovett, you are to approach Master Noé before introducing yourself to him—I am afraid he shan’t be able to hear you speak from all the way down here.”
My mind had drifted further than I’d realized; at the sound of Bernard’s hissed reprimand, I crashed back into myself. Flushing, I glanced over at the butler, who nodded tersely to the space ahead of me in a wordless command to move .
I didn’t wait for him to prompt me again. With a thin smile, I obeyed, starting down the long aisle toward the three figures who awaited me at the end of it.
They were seated in a semicircular recess at the end of the hall, where the proud, straight march of the aisle gave way to a curved apse, a half dozen lancet windows spearing up toward the vaulted ceiling behind them.
Dim stormlight seeped through the stained glass, washing their forms in colored shadows; two of the figures were positioned left and right of center, while the third sat in their exact middle, the back of the chair he was lounging in a dark half-moon, rising high above the others.
Noé Alaire watched me with flat silver eyes, his gaze firm and direct even as the rest of him slouched loosely against the hard obsidian of his…
I couldn’t think of any suitable description apart from throne .
The entire chamber, in fact, had a stern formality to it that spoke of regality.
A tightness permeated the space, a swollen fullness like a distended stomach—the walls pulled too thin over their foundations, the rib-vaulted ceiling arched too high.
As if the whole place was one hot breath away from bursting.
Noé’s skin was pale, almost pearlescent in the wet, rainy glow of the hall, cut with crimson where a slant of red light dripped over him through the windows.
It sullied the suit he was wearing, soaking his jacket—a crisp ivory aside from the Alaire sigil stitched in golden thread just below his lapel—as if the fabric was damp with blood.
He tossed his head as I approached, and at the motion, the message I’d glimpsed on the list of names he’d given to Eliot lanced through my mind: Pick well—I can’t bear another bore.
Though I’d only just met him, I couldn’t shake the impression that Bastian’s heir did appear bored.
There was a restless, frenetic energy to the way he sat, the toes of his polished leather shoes tapping impatiently on the stone floor as if he found this entire exercise exhausting.
Or, I mentally corrected as I gazed at the half-empty tumbler in his right hand, as if he were drunk.
As though in confirmation, he took a lazy swig from his glass, ice clinking over the thrum of the rain outside, and called over my head:
“She’s signed the contract?”
I did not turn around, but I assumed Bernard gave a gesture of confirmation behind me, because a moment later, Noé slumped lower in his chair.
The butler had seemed pleased when I’d handed him the filled-out scroll upon his fetching me earlier, my pseudonym penned, a false vow, at the bottom.
Without my legal name to seal it, I supposed the agreement’s terms were nonbinding; still, I’d disliked the man’s smile, coy and slick, as if I’d just walked myself into a trap.
“Lovely,” Noe said around another sip of liquid. “We can get on with it, then.” He glanced toward his left. “This one is yours?”
My eyes followed his. Seated directly to the side of Noé, Eliot leaned forward in his chair, observing me with his elbows on his knees, his fingers laced tightly in front of him.
I arched a challenging brow at him when our gazes met, my skin prickling and more exposed than I was accustomed to in the gown he’d chosen for me: a delicate scoop-necked creation with a dropped, corseted waist and a pair of beaded straps that hung loosely off my shoulders, highlighting the clean lines of my collarbone.
I wondered if he approved of my choice to wear it, if in the decision, he would read a truce—proof that I’d accepted his written apology—but his handsome face was blank and emotionless, giving away nothing.
Breaking our stare, Eliot swung his chin toward Noé and ducked it in a single brisk nod.
His confirmation seemed to rouse his friend, the listless apathy Noé exuded crystallizing into something resembling interest. Setting his glass down, Bastian’s son focused his attention on me once more, his mouth—almost as pale as the rest of him—lifting in a soft smile.
“Miss Cecilia Lovett,” he addressed me. “I owe you my gratitude.”
With a flick of his hand, he motioned for me to step closer.
“You must tell me how you convinced the Isle d’Eylau’s resident moral dissenter to come and play with us this year,” Noé said, his head lilting teasingly in Eliot’s direction.
My attention pricked at his phrasing— The Isle d’Eylau’s resident moral dissenter.
I wondered what Noé meant by that title; he spoke it with the easy familiarity of an old joke.
“I practically begged Lear to keep me company after my father first conceived of this competition last summer, but he outright refused, no matter my attempts to persuade him,” Noé continued, drawing my focus back to him.
“And yet, this time around, he not only agreed to attend, but also to preside over the event alongside me.” He shifted forward in his seat, his voice turning sly. “What secret skills are you harboring?”
“She is rather pretty.”
This comment came from the figure seated opposite Eliot, on Noé’s right-hand side—a boy who, despite the relatively smaller size of his chair, towered over the rest of his companions like a king above his pawns.
Like Noé, he had a drink in hand, his ascot hanging half undone around his neck as if tugged loose.
His blue gaze—sober and alert, despite the alcohol he held—drank me in with an unabashed boldness, twinkling brighter when I blushed.
Dorian Drake—I placed him instinctively.
He was, indisputably, the most beautiful man I had ever seen, even amongst a judges’ panel filled with the sons of former silkwitches.
His height was stunning, like a cloak draped around him—enveloping his whole presence—and I had the feeling that he wore it proudly.
That he enjoyed being seen, being envied.
It is his uncle, Adélard, you’re more likely to be familiar with…Master of the Cloisters. Eliot’s voice echoed in my mind, quelling the warmth within me. Looks aside, I could not forget the danger that sprouted just beside Dorian on their shared family tree. With some effort, I forced my eyes away.
At his friend’s remark, Noé stiffened. “Begging for scraps already, Dor?”
“Just admiring Lear’s taste,” Dorian replied with a wink. “You know I prefer for my companions to do the begging.”
In response, Noé rolled his eyes, playing at annoyance, but even I could tell his anger was a hollow shell, lacking any weight behind it.
Could feel the camaraderie that stretched between all the judges, the way they shifted in response to one another like the limbs of a single beast, bound together by histories as old and tough as cartilage.
“I entreat you not to judge me by the company I keep, Miss Lovett,” Noé said to me good-naturedly. “Apart from your benefactor here, they are all dogs.” Pausing, he gathered himself before starting again, his manner composed and businesslike. “What, pray tell, is the nature of your Wit?”
I hesitated. During our sessions together back at the Diplomat, Eliot had cautioned me to expect questions about my gift—yet as I stood face to face with Bastian Alaire’s heir, the advice he’d given me then now seemed inadequate.
What sort of answer would a boy like Noé most want to hear?
Was I to play coy? Exaggerate? I glanced at Eliot, hopeful for guidance, but his expression remained stubbornly empty, his glazed eyes as unseeing as a corpse’s.
Some partner he is. My earlier grudge, scabbed over by his note, split open, fresh indignation seeping from it.
In the end, I decided to proceed with the truth. “The Envies have blessed me with the ability to open any door, sir,” I replied to Noé. “Even locked rooms lay themselves bare forme.”
A murmur of curiosity rose from Dorian, swiftly silenced by Noé. “Do they, then?” he mused. I had his full attention now, rooting me in place with a hypnotic gravity like the eye of a storm.
“You know, there are those who believe one can tell the quality of a silkwitch’s soul by the nature of her Wit,” Noé went on. “I shall be interested to find out what yours says aboutyou.”
He held my gaze for a moment longer, his stare like the point of a sword leveled at my chest—and then, as sudden as it had risen, it lowered. He sat back, relaxed again.
“That will be all for the moment. Go on to the party,” he instructed, dismissing me.
Seeing no benefit in disobeying, I lifted my skirts and turned, only to be caught by the sound of his voice a second later.
“And, Miss Lovett—”
Noé spoke my name like a command, and I froze, looking back.
He’d leaned against the arm of his throne and was watching me with a veiled expression, his chin propped up on his knuckles.
“I realize we have not given you an easy task, entering a race that your fellow competitors have already run once,” he admitted softly.
“Yet, be careful that you do not count yourself out of the competition.” He smirked, a subtle twitch of his mouth. “I do so enjoy an underdog.”
Reaching for his drink, he downed the last swallow of liquid and shook the newly empty glass in the air. “Send in the next girl, Bernard. And another whiskey, please.”