Chapter Ten
By the time we slipped back inside, the crowd had parted, as naturally as water breaking round a stone. Peering between a pair of guests’ shoulders, I spied a corridor of empty space that had been cleared through the center of the ballroom—a path, cutting all the way to its entrance.
Two men stood at the end of it. On the right hand of the taller one, an ornate silver ring glinted.
The band was set with a swollen, opaline gem, rounded like a pearl but with an uneven, toothlike surface, as if it had been ripped from the mouth of some mythical beast. A glittering, pale aura seemed to surround it, gathering like frost in the air—an exhalation.
Wordlessly, Bastian Alaire and his son began to walk, Noé keeping a respectful half-pace distance between himself and his father. Apart from the hushed murmur of the rain outside, the click of their footsteps was the only noise in the room, sharp and steady like the tick of a clock.
The Weaver King resembled his son—or, rather, it was clear that Noé took after Bastian.
Both men were slim and angular, like a pair of cranes gliding across the ground with their prominent, beaklike noses and their ivory complexions.
While Noé was dressed in the same white suit he’d worn during presentations, Bastian wore black, the only color in his ensemble the golden spinning wheel and capital A stitched beside his lapel—the same modification of the Weaver sigil which Noé’s jacket bore.
Click. Click. Gradually, the pair continued their progression toward the far end of the room, Bastian’s peculiar, luminous ring holding my attention all the way.
I recognized it, of course; even without the telltale shine of its magesilk core, there would have been no mistaking such a jewel.
The granting of a seal was a central part of all Weaver marriage ceremonies, meant to signify a couple’s union.
Unlike other enchanted objects, seals were purely symbolic, created with the first strand of magesilk spun from the bride-to-be’s hair.
Traditionally, the strand was looped around the bride’s and groom’s ring fingers—like a string connecting them—as she said her vows, then afterward placed inside a piece of jewelry or other vessel for the groom to keep.
It was a sacred exchange, a denoting of the end of one phase of a silkwitch’s life and the beginning of another, in which her hair would no longer be protected, but harvested to fill her husband’s coffers.
Mariéprix, the ring of Bastian Alaire, was among the most famous seals of all.
Meaning bride-price in old Balmoorish, the magesilk inside it had been spun with hair taken from Bastian’s now-deceased wife when they’d wed, over two decades prior, retaining its power even after her death.
When it came time for Noé to marry, a new seal would be forged for his wear, made to contain the magesilk created with his own bride’s tresses.
A bride who was even now standing in the room with me.
The notion made me distinctly uncomfortable.
I had no intention of marrying Noé Alaire—so long as I found Ophelia’s killer, I was content to leave Fortblanche immediately after—but nevertheless, seeing the ring on Bastian’s hand…
It made the competition feel all the more real.
Finally, Noé and Bastian reached the opposite end of the ballroom and stopped, turning to address the crowd.
With a nod toward the assembled audience, Bastian Alaire lifted Mariéprix high above his head, the brilliant white light that bled from it flaring brighter as he did so.
All around me, guests erupted into renewed cheers, the reverential hush that had swaddled the room only moments ago giving way to a deafening, exuberant roar.
The noise crashed over me like a spill of water; beside me, Eliot flinched, sunk low in a bow.
Hush. My fists clenched as, in my mind, a voice bloomed—resonant and clear despite the shouting all around. Like a flexed hand, the same presence I’d sensed on the terrace pressed against my thoughts, shoving its command forward.
Weaver magic. My throat tightened. All at once, the guests fell quiet, a few touching their palms nervously to their foreheads as if feeling for a knot there.
Bastian Alaire can see into your mind like a well. The rumors were true, then. Was the Weaver King sorting through my thoughts even as I stood before him right now—and if so, could he see the truth of my identity, hidden like a face behinda veil?
The possibility was sobering. I’d known, of course, that the sorcerer lines possessed gifts that vastly outranked the abilities of silkwitches, but to encounter one firsthand…
My Wit could not save me, if he found me out. My time at Fortblanche would be over before it had begun.
“My dear friends!” Bastian did not acknowledge his unspoken command aloud, smiling warmly at his audience. “It is my great pleasure to welcome you this evening, to join in celebrating the commencement of the first night of my only son’s, my heir’s, search for a wife.”
The cheers began again, rowdier than before, whoops and whistles soaring above the applause. Bastian allowed the celebration to continue for a few moments, then waved his hand, signaling for quiet.
“When I began this tradition, one year ago, many of you questioned it,” he continued more soberly. “Did I not trust my son to choose his own companion, you asked? And I told you then, as I will tell you now—it is not my own kin who I mean to test, but his suitors.
“As those of us who have been caught in its thrall know well, love is obfuscating,” the Weaver King went on.
His gaze swept over the crowd as he spoke, Noé standing, silent and solemn, by his side.
The younger Alaire’s expression had remained blank all through his father’s speech thus far; focusing on him, I searched his face for signs of reaction—anything that might reveal his attitude to the competition that had been thrust upon him—but found nothing but the same vacant dispassion that I’d encountered in the receiving room.
I flinched as, abruptly, Noé’s eyes snapped to me, finding my stare before I could rip it away. My cheeks heated with embarrassment; from across the room, I thought I saw his mouth lift in a half smile, as faint as a smudge of ink.
“What one thinks they see, in the haze of infatuation, is but a clouded mirror.” Bastian spoke again, and I took the opportunity to avert my gaze.
There was something in the younger Alaire’s smirk I mistrusted—it felt almost chiding, as if he had caught me looking at him and was encouraging me to do better next time.
“Yet in the case of us Weavers, the bride we take is no mere wife,” his father went on.
“Her hair will fill our storerooms and be spun by our artisans on their wheels; refined, it will become in itself the greatest source of power and enchantment in our nation. How, then, are we to judge candidates for such a vital role by a measure so subjective as love? No,” Bastian intoned, his voice low.
“We cannot wait for the mirror to clear with time. We must ensure that the young woman we welcome into our family becomes our utmost pride, our vainglory . And how better to accomplish that than to test her against her own—her peers?”
He chuckled as the audience let out another cheer, their anticipation palpable now, like the tang of salt in the air.
“Ten fortunate maidens have joined us tonight,” the Weaver King stated.
“Over the past weeks, my staff and I have been hard at work designing trials that will measure their wisdom, their cleverness, their kindness, and the strengths of their gifts—which will, in short, reveal the victor hidden amongst them.” Pausing, he raised his arms invitingly toward the room.
“Is there any person here who wishes to know the nature of our tests?” he called out.
His speech was resonant now, theatrical, riling the partygoers into a frenzy.
“Forgive me,” he said after a moment, when the howled cheers had quieted. “I am an old man, and I fear my hearing has grown weaker with age.” He stretched his arms wider, his words nearing a shout. “Is there not a single person at this ball who is curious to learn what we have devised?”
Shrieks of affirmation, piercing and unrestrained. I stumbled as the crowd jostled around me, seething with eagerness like animals in a pen.
A hand wrapped firmly around my wrist, preventing me from falling. Drawing in a breath, I glanced up, expecting to find one of the maidens looking down at me.
Instead, I found Eliot. His expression was stern, as impassive as marble; his thumb pressed into the triangle of veins just below the heel of my palm—an assurance or reprimand, I couldn’t tell. When our gazes met, his grip on me tightened: an instinctive pulse, like a hitched breath.
“Well, I shall happily oblige you.”
Satisfied at last, Bastian bowed to the crowd, and immediately Eliot released me. I flexed my fingers at my side, trying to banish the lingering impression of his touch, like a hum beneath my skin.
“For the first trial,” the Weaver King went on, “begins rightnow.”
At once, I forgot all else.
—
“An heir is a curious creature: given every advantage in the world, and yet, there is much that he may not know.” Over the crest of his audience’s shocked murmurs, Bastian spoke, Noé maintaining his silent post beside his father.
“Who, after all, would risk offending the inheritor of great wealth with an unpleasant truth? Yet in a wife, I pray my son will find a confidante—an equal to speak plainly with, as I found in his mother.”
As if in signal, the Weaver King nodded to Noé, who returned his father’s gesture with a thin-lipped smile, at last stepping forward. There was a practiced ease to the younger Alaire’s movements—as though they were not his at all but rather directives on a script.
“Thank you, Father,” Noé said calmly, with a bow of his head.
“And to my maidens…” Lifting his chin, he hesitated, arching a brow—much to the delight of the assembled onlookers, who shouted their encouragement.
“My test to you is this: I challenge you to uncover a secret that I do not know, and to bring it to me after the conclusion of tomorrow’s evening festivities, at the final stroke of midnight. ”
A secret. Could that truly be the extent of our first test—bringing Noé a bit of gossip? I stepped forward, away from Eliot’s presence that waited like a sword at my back. I was good at secrets; people often left them in their rooms.
Places they thought no one could go except themselves.
“This is the first trial of five. Those maidens whose findings intrigue me will be invited to stay on at Fortblanche for the second. Those who fail to surprise me, however…” Noé hesitated, his expression turning sly.
“I will say only this: In all cases, but especially tonight, a good first impression is a valuable tool to have in your pocket.”
The crowd tittered obligingly, and Noé allowed their laughter to settle before going on.
“The rules as they stand are few, and they are simple: No maiden may, at any time, leave the premises of Fortblanche to accomplish her task. That applies to the entirety of the Vainglory,” he added, his gaze raking over the room.
“Any maiden who passes through our estate’s doors without the express approval of me or my father shall not be let back in. ”
A shiver trilled down my spine at his words—at his stare, clipping over the place where I stood as if it were to me especially that he was directing his warning.
Another term. I thought again of the contract I’d passed off to the butler earlier, Cecilia Lovett written at its bottom in my wavering hand.
I’d assumed, when I’d signed it, that I’d reached the end of the Vainglory’s rules, but it seemed they were like an unfurling carpet, rolling ever onward.
No maiden may, at any time, leave… Outside, the rain howled at the windows, the darkness total and obliterating, a blindfold wrapped round Fortblanche.
“Additionally, no one else may discover a maiden’s secret on her behalf—the knowledge each of you bring me must be yours and yours alone,” Noé said, pulling my focus back to him.
“You are of course permitted to use your Wits in this trial—it is encouraged, in fact—though any maiden found engaging in deliberate sabotage of another will be eliminated without debate or question.”
He brought his hands together in a clap.
“Fortblanche is a large house, ladies, and I am certain it hides many deceptions,” he continued. “If I were you, I would begin my exploration quickly. To the rest of you…”
Noé’s wrist flicked, and immediately, the ballroom was filled with a sound like pistol fire. I started before realizing it was only the popping of corks at the bar—behind me, waiters were lifting frothing bottles of champagne high, pristine white towels draped over their arms.
“The night is yours to fill with merriment and drink, but I warn you now, keep your heads clear and your senses about you,” Noé concluded, smiling. “With silkwitches about, a man may never be sure whether his thoughts are truly his own.”