Chapter Fourteen
I found it relatively easy to while away the hours at Fortblanche; there was simply so much of it that the mere act of walking through the Weaver King’s estate took time, a solid half of my afternoon lost within the wandering sprawl of its corridors.
After supper, the other maidens and I were directed back to our rooms to prepare for the evening ball—where, alongside drinking and merriment, we would be called before Noé to present our findings from the first trial.
The collective awareness of our upcoming test was palpable as we tottered in a neat line toward our chambers; I sensed it in the way we all glanced fleetingly at one another before ducking behind our doors like nosy guests at an inn, curious to know who would be leaving us in the morning.
An Alaire maid appeared to dress me around dusk, lacing up my corset with efficient, quick hands and little speech before settling me squarely in front of the vanity.
I shivered as she tugged a pearl-handled comb through my tresses, eyeing the loose hair which snagged in its teeth—limp, dark strings like pondweed in the mouth of a bog-dweller.
Pausing her brushing, the maid teased the caught strands free of the comb.
Alarm jabbed at me when she did not set them aside for me to collect, as I expected, but wound them carefully around another instrument which she produced from within her uniform.
A golden spool the likes of which I had never seen before, weighty in her palm.
Suspicious, I studied the contraption. “Planning to take some home? You do know that theft of an unmarried silkwitch’s hair is illegal.”
The maid startled, then blushed, as if embarrassed she’d drawn my attention. “It—it is not for me, miss,” she stammered, bowing her head. “It is only the tithe. For the master, as miss knows.”
As if for proof, she held the spool out for me to examine. The metal was cool to the touch as I took it from her; I made out a symbol carved into one side—a golden spinning wheel, three of its spokes extending to form a capital letter A .
The mark of the Alaires?
I felt a weight slide into my stomach like a swallow of mud. “The tithe,” I repeated, my eyes still on the spool. “What tithe?”
“For Mr.Bastian’s storerooms,” the maid expounded. “Forgiveness, miss—they said you ladies would be expecting us to collect it. That you’d all agreed, as you did last year.”
Hesitantly, she reached for the spool—but I pulled it away from her, gripping it tightly. “I was not here last year,” I replied, fingers clenched around the metal. “And I certainly did not agree to any sort of tithe. Nor do I believe the Virtuous Parliament would, were they made aware of it.”
Really, it was ironic—me, invoking Parliament, as if I had not spent the past year thieving from under their noses—but my words had the desired effect; the maid blanched as if doused in cold water. “They said it would be all right,” she asserted unhelpfully. “They mentioned a…a contract?”
The heaviness in my gut sank lower. Before my eyes, the final term on the scroll I’d signed only the day before appeared: The undersigned agrees to…
provide any additional materials required by host. I hadn’t questioned, when I’d handed the paper over to the Alaires’ butler, what sort of materials his masters might require; now I realized my mistake.
I recalled the idle spinning wheels I’d discovered in the empty workroom the previous night, the pegs bare of any product. Would our hair go to make up that loss?
For a moment, I held still, debating. Technically speaking, it was not my name on the Weaver King’s contract—legally, I was not bound by his rules—yet I could think of no way to protest as much without revealing, along with it, my deception.
My lips still downturned, I ran my thumb over the marking on the spool a final time—then passed it back to the maid and straightened in my seat again. “Fine.”
The girl visibly relaxed once the object was back in her possession, tucking it in her pocket and reaching for the comb once more. She moved to bring it to my head, but before she could make contact, I snapped my hand quickly up to touch her wrist, stilling her.
My stare found hers in the mirror’s reflection.
The maid’s eyes had turned beady, in the way of someone anticipating a blow; where my skin brushed hers, I could feel that she was quaking, as gentle as the quiver of a leaf.
“I should like to know who is included in the they you mentioned,” I said coolly, holding her gaze.
“Is it only the Alaires you take orders from, or Mr.Noé’s judges, too? ”
The maid blinked, her wrist bobbing against my fingers.
“I’m sorry to say I am unsure, miss,” she answered a moment later.
“We receive our instructions from the housekeeper—Mrs.Edmund. It is she who communicates with the masters.” Anxiously, she wet her lips.
“If…If miss has more questions, I could direct miss to her?”
I considered her offer. It had not escaped me that Eliot, amidst all the so-called aid he’d given me, had made no mention of a tithe—if he’d been aware of it and had withheld the information from me, I wanted to know.
Still…unexpected as it was, as far as sacrifices went, a few strands of hair seemed relatively harmless.
According to my maid, my fellow silkwitches had agreed to the Alaires’ terms with little protest. Would whatever answers I gleaned from the housekeeper about Eliot’s character be worth it, if my questions made me stand out as the sore thumb amongst their ranks?
The risks effectively weighed, I relented, setting my hand back down. A moment later, I felt the familiar tug as the comb began to once more pass over my scalp, parsing strand from strand.
By the time the maid finished, the spool was almost full. I was relieved when she took it away.
—
When it came time for the night’s festivities, the other maidens and I were led into Fortblanche’s south wing, a gloomy area of the estate I hadn’t fully explored yet.
In addition to the usual stained glass scenes, statues watched over us as we paraded through the corridors, their eyes lost to shadow so all that was visible were their frozen, frowning mouths.
Eventually, we were deposited in what looked to be a gentleman’s study—bookshelves lined the stone walls, the room’s furnishings upholstered in various shades of leather and amber.
Aside from myself and my fellow silkwitches, the crowd was small, reserved in comparison to the group that had packed the ballroom the previous night; a few men bearing Weaver insignias milled around us, a couple accompanied by younger women I took to be their wives.
I did not make conversation, choosing instead to isolate myself in the room’s back corner, where a proud, tufted armchair sat gathering dust. For a while, I existed in solitude, my only company a fat white mouse which I glimpsed peeking out of a hole in the stone every few minutes.
There was a funny rhythm to its movements, like a soldier on watch. Observing it, I smiled.
“Feeling shy?”
A shadow swept over me, tall and broad, accompanied by a resonant male voice.
Startled, I whirled toward the sound, only to step hurriedly back when I came face to face with Dorian Drake.
His towering height was even more remarkable when viewed close-up; he loomed above me, devilishly handsome in a sleek ebony suit, his dark hair slicked neatly down.
“Forgive me if I’ve frightened you, Miss Lovett,” Dorian dipped into a bow as he addressed me, his eyes finding mine beneath the black cut of his brows.
Somehow, the apology sounded mocking on his tongue, though he spoke with the perfect formality of a gentleman. It was his manner, I decided. His every movement felt smirking, like a smile half hidden behind a hand.
“I’ve been sent to fetch you,” he continued when I gave no reply. “Your judgment awaits.”
My pulse sped at his words, then raced faster when I glimpsed the time on the pocket watch hanging loose near his waist: midnight . How had the hours passed so fast? Was Noé summoning me to give my secret already?
Gathering myself, I took Dorian’s proffered arm. As he led me out of the main room we’d gathered in and to a smaller study adjoining it, I recited the secret Eliot had given me in my head: Pierre Bordeau has a mistress in Stravast. Pierre Bordeau has a mistress in Stravast.
So far as scandals went, it was a relatively tame one—unless the other maidens’ searches had been even more fruitless than mine, I doubted it would position me as a front-runner in the race. But I would pass the trial; for now, that was enough.
Unlike the space I’d just exited, the second room was quiet—similar in design to its larger companion, but smaller and more private-feeling.
Candelabras stood rigidly in each corner, dripping wax from their metal arms. Cast in their illumination were a pair of figures, waiting silently in the center of the room.
Noé and Eliot were seated in the same arrangement they’d been in for my presentation: Noé at the center, elevated above the rest of his judges like a crown jewel; Eliot to his direct left; and an empty seat for Dorian on the right.
“Miss Lovett. A pleasure to see you again,” Noé said as Dorian crossed to settle into the chair by his side.
The noble facade he had worn alongside his father yesterday faltered; once more, I saw the bored young man I’d encountered during our first meeting, lounging uncomfortably in his chair like a petulant child forced to sit still.
Blinking lazily, he nodded to Dorian. “Give her the stick.”