Chapter Twelve #3
“Take care if you venture down there again,” he said. “I doubt you’ll find anything related to my sister amongst those ruins, but murderers are not the only beasts which can take a life. Best you don’t run into trouble somewhere I can’t helpyou.”
I gave a noncommittal hmm but said nothing in response.
Eliot’s explanation was perfectly logical—in fact, it aligned exactly with my own assumptions after discovering the passage behind the tapestry last night.
And yet, when I considered the crumbling, ancient walls of the atrium, the archways wreathed in gloom…
the space felt older than simply a few generations.
Even tucked at the top of Fortblanche as I was, I could still feel its dark potency, like a purpling sore on my heel.
“Listen—our absence will be noted if we delay here much longer, but before you go, I have something for you. Two things, actually,” Eliot said, bending to withdraw a small, round object from the pocket of his checked trousers. Approaching me, he pressed it in my hand.
I glanced skeptically at it, running my thumb over its surface.
In my palm was a tarnished bronze coin, about the size of a copper twill.
Its metal was scratched and cool to the touch, its edges greening with age.
Where normally the Balmoorish national flower—an orchid—would be stamped onto its surface, an unidentifiable bird’s wing was emblazoned; flipping the coin over, I saw a pair of talons etched into the oppositeside.
Lifting my head, I gazed archly at Eliot. “How pretty.”
With a knowing smile, he flicked its surface, then stepped away.
“It is Woven—crafted by my father’s own artisans,” he said.
“I have a matching one. Keep it in your pocket, and when you wish to speak with me, simply tap it thrice. My coin will burn white and go hot, alerting me to your call.” He slid his hands into his pockets.
“Passing notes is risky, and impractical. This way, we stand no chance of our correspondence being discovered. We can use this place as our designated meeting spot.”
I considered the coin for a moment longer, then closed my fist tightly around it. “And the second item?”
Obligingly, Eliot passed it to me—a note. I unfolded it, giving him a dubious look as I did.
Pierre Bordeau has a mistress in Stravast.
“Noé doesn’t know.” Eliot nodded meaningfully at the paper, which I held outstretched like a dead moth, hesitant to bring it closer to me. “Pierre is a close friend of Bastian’s, and a mean drunk—Noé has always despised the man. He’ll be grateful for the chance to disgrace him.”
I regarded the message warily. “Our instructions specified we were to source our secrets ourselves.”
His eyes narrowed. “Well, consider me your source, then. There’s no point in wasting time running down a bit of gossip when we could be using it to further our own aims—I’m only trying to help expedite the process.”
I held his stare. “I have witnessed what your help looks like. Telling the other maidens I was your charity case?” I said, pleased when I saw him flinch. “I can pass the trial on my own.”
Crumpling the note in my fist, I turned away—then winced as the chain-link bindings of my caul bit into my temples at the motion. Hissing, I reached up to remove it, suddenly desperate to be free of its constraints.
I stiffened as Eliot took a step forward, his hand lifting as though to stop me. “What are you doing?”
The alarm in his voice gave me pause. I froze with one arm still raised, arching a brow at him. “Taking this off,” I replied slowly.
His features tightened, his expression sharpening with a wary, urgent emotion. It almost resembled fright. “Why?”
I huffed, my apprehension at his advance melting rapidly into irritation. “Because you are frustrating, and I despise it, and I do not wish to bear two atrocities at once.”
My tone was waspish, but rather than retreat, Eliot drew another pace nearer.
“Put it back on,” he said. At my incredulous expression, he sighed and halted his advance, tousling his hair.
“I know it is uncomfortable,” he admitted more gently.
“But you must understand—a society silkwitch would never allow herself to be sighted without her caul. The majority of girls like you hardly even touch their hair before marriage—I have heard of some who refuse to brush it at all, so afraid are they of losing any strands that might otherwise be used to bolster their dower.” His gaze hardened again, becoming stern.
“So long as you remain in Fortblanche, you are never to take it off, except while you sleep. Do you understand?”
He was standing very close to me now, the distance between us thin enough that I knew all that kept him from touching me was a decision. At his approach—his words—I felt something spark in my belly. A cold fear, like a warning.
“Are you commanding me?” I asked. My tone was low and flinty.
Eliot’s brow creased. “I am advising you,” he corrected. “Strongly.”
I regarded him for a moment: his earnest expression, the worry I could sense clearly in the way he held himself. He was, I felt certain, speaking the truth—he did mean to help me—and yet still…
“I would advise you to remember,” I said softly, “that I am your partner, not your wife. And you do not control me.”
In emphasis, I pushed the piece of paper he’d given me back into his palm.
His skin was dry, his hand flexing instinctively at my touch, but when I tried to move away, his fingers found my wrist. His touch was light, no more than a gentle press, yet somehow it was like the bite of glass, rooting me in place.
“Why do you rebuff my every attempt to aid you?” he murmured.
His voice was hushed, sending shivers over my arms. “I cannot understand it. It is the same as with the charity comment. Did you wish for the other maidens to think me fond of you last night? To wonder if, perhaps, we were involved?” He edged closer.
“I was born into this world. You have only just stepped foot in it. Every action I take, I take in your best interest. I know you are aware of this, so why punish me?”
Seconds passed, shouldering lethargically by me.
For several of them, neither of us moved, his words like a spell cast between us.
There was truth in them, I knew, and yet…
whatever his intention, Eliot’s gibe the previous evening had reopened a wound I thought I’d stitched shut.
I recalled Clio Lavoie’s pitying laugh—exactly like the twitters of the society girls when I’d been removed from their ball a year before.
My life as a silkwitch had been all begging: begging for acceptance from my fellows, begging for a chance at a husband. I’d changed that with my thefts—had managed to scrape a bit of my pride back, claim my gifts as my own.
Petty as it was, I could not stand being humiliated again.
“Because you have wounded my pride.” The answer was out of my mouth before I could stop it: honest, maybe the only honest thing I’d given him during the course of our conversation.
“You diminish me in front of my competitors—make me appear lesser than—and I cannot protest, lest our alliance be discovered. Anger is a soothing emotion. Do not make me elaborate beyond that.”
Eliot’s brow furrowed. His eyes were dark and intent; I stiffened in preparation for his response, but after a minute, he only swallowed, pulling away.
“You should go,” he said. “The rest of the maidens will be sitting for breakfast already. And—take this.” He pressed his note back toward me, and reluctantly, I accepted it. “You don’t have to use it unless you’d like,” he insisted. “But it will be better to have it than not.”
Running my forefinger along the paper’s rough edge, I nodded, then turned away. I’d almost made it to the door when his voice caught me, pulling me back.
“Miss Lovett—”
I glanced over my shoulder, finding him where he stood in the center of the room. “I have known Anais Tremblay since we were both small,” he told me steadily, his gaze fixed on mine. “Yet when I found myself in need of a partner, I sought you out, rather than turning to her. Never forget that.”
My chest constricted—a sudden lurch like the beat of a bird’s wings. I nodded once more in understanding; then, facing straight forward again, I opened the door.
On the other side, it was chilly. Try as I might, I was not angry anymore.