Chapter Sixteen
Sleep would not come.
I sat up against my pillows, combing my unbound hair away from my neck. Around me, my bedroom was quiet, the tap-tap of rain against my windows like the drum of fingernails on the panes. Past its chatter, I could hear the steady roll of the sea, waves sighing as they broke far below me.
For the past hour, I’d attempted to lose myself in the noise, but my head was too busy.
For the life of me, I couldn’t understand why my collision with Eliot had upset me so.
It wasn’t as if I hadn’t touched a man before—I had—and for the Sisters’ sake, we’d only been dancing .
On the whole, it was a far more innocent position than others I’d found myself in.
Why, then, did thinking of his fingers on my chin send a shiver through me, like a cold front nesting in my bones?
I did not know, or perhaps it was that I did not want to know—didn’t want to waste any more time dwelling on the matter than I already had. In my experience, the deeper one dug, the more likely they were to be faced with truths they’d rather have stayed buried.
And where Eliot Lear was concerned, there was nothing more I wished to discover.
Quitting my bed, I crossed on bare feet to the worn cedar desk positioned just below my bedroom window.
Atop it was a clothbound novel, bottle-green and with a satin ribbon poking out from between its pages like a tongue.
The book had been waiting by my door for me when I’d returned from my walk with Marie-Louise in the morning, Manon having held true to her word, though with all that had occurred between then and now, I hadn’t yet had time to open it.
I ran a finger along the spine, admiring the cool feel of the cloth, the divots where the title had been stamped in gold.
Perhaps losing myself in another world would help me, at least momentarily, escape my troubles in this one.
Setting the tome aside, I pulled open the top-right desk drawer, rooting around in its hollow depths for a source of light.
An object clanked against the drawer’s wooden side: the taper candle from Ophelia’s hiding place.
I’d forgotten that I’d moved it before leaving for my presentation the previous night.
Taking the brass holder by its curved handle, I withdrew it, holding it up to the storm light. Half melted as the candle was, its original shape had been partially obscured by the weep of wax from its top, but I still marveled at it—a tight spiral like a ram’s horn.
Finding a match, I struck it and brought it to the wick, laying the metal holder on the desktop. When the flame caught, I stepped back.
The candle burned the pure white of magesilk. Enchanted.
Alarmed, my gaze fell to the still-lit match in my hand—but no, the fire blackening the head of the wood was a mundane orange, distinctly unmagical.
With a flick of my wrist, I put it out, my attention traveling back to the spectral flame wavering on the desk.
Only Woven objects, those containing spun silkwitch hair, shone that brightly.
In itself, the discovery of an enchanted candle in the former bedroom of a girl like Ophelia Lear wasn’t too unordinary—being descended from a Weaver line, she’d have had access to plenty of such objects—but why had this one been hidden beneath her floor?
And more important: What had it been magicked to do?
I glanced at the standing mirror in my corner—covered with an extra sheet since my talk with Marie-Louise, now lingering mournfully like a pale, upright ghost. What was it the Owl had said about Eliot’s sister earlier?
Sometimes she would pen a message and then burn it, as if she were afraid of anyone else reading what she’d put down onpaper.
My pulse quickened, an idea unfurling in my mind.
When I’d spoken with Marie-Louise, I’d assumed, as she had, that Ophelia had destroyed her correspondence out of a desire for privacy.
But what if the opposite were true? I thought of Eliot’s coins, twins in a set, connecting us discreetly through the stone walls of the castle.
I felt slightly mad as I scrambled for a fountain pen and paper, scrawling out a message in a shaking hand. In all likelihood, I was being ridiculous, and yet I held my breath as I brought the note to the pale flame, watching its words burn.
Is anyone there?
A minute passed in stillness, then another, my gaze trained on the erratic jump of the candle fire.
When five had gone without any form of response, I began to feel foolish.
What had I expected—a voice to be emitted from the smoke, like a goddess from the heavens?
I bit my lip, the flame of the wick suddenly shameful, like an outgrown childhood habit. Leaning forward, I made to blow it out.
Before I could, the fire stuttered as if with a cough.
I tensed as, seemingly from the heart of the flame itself, a slip of paper was spat out, rolled tighter than the width of my pinkie nail and only an inch or so in length.
It landed on the desktop with a weak thump , curls of smoke emanating from its ends.
For a moment, I could only stare at it, holding perfectly still as if it were a strange insect poised to sprout wings and buzz toward me. Then, with a gasp, I snatched it up and unrolled it.
The paper was hot against my palm—I could feel, already, that it would leave a welt, but I didn’t dare lay it down.
Written across the center of the scroll was a message.
The script was not in any form of handwriting—rather, it was as if the candle ash itself had imprinted on the page, forming slanted, precise letters.
Who is this? This channel is not intended for you.
Triumph, as potent as a swallow of liquor, poured through me. Finally. After two days of half starts and vague suspicions, here, at last, was a defined thread to pull.
A clue.
I wrote back without hesitation. It was intended for Ophelia Lear, was it not?
The flame remained undisturbed for a minute or so after I fed it my reply. Then, another judder—nearly stopping my heart—and a second scroll fell onto the desktop.
Interesting, it said. A second later, another message followed it: Who is this?
My hand flew over the letter paper. Perhaps I would be more willing to share my name, were you to share yours.
You called me. Who do you think I am?
This time, I delayed before answering, tapping the nib of my pen against the page. Ophelia’s lover.
It disappeared into the fire. I chewed at my nail, staring into the white pit of the candle flame until, with a jerk of satisfaction, I watched as it peeled open and a response tumbledout.
Do you truly believe Ophelia was the sort of girl to waste her time passing love notes?
I swore as I read the message—stung, for some reason, by the note-writer’s derision . Sucking at my pen, I tried once more, eager to prove myself. Her confidante, then.
Better.
A swell of satisfaction. I dashed out a response, pressing my advantage. Where are you? Are you in Fortblanche now?
The reply came almost immediately this time. Are you? Confidence extends both ways, dear reader.
I paused, the scroll searing my fingers like a cigar leaf as I spread it on the desk.
On the one hand, I understood well the dangers of conversing with strangers—much less invisible, anonymous entities with words fed through candle flame.
Even if the person on the other side of the fire was telling the truth about being Ophelia’s confidante, that did not mean they were not also her killer.
Alliances spoiled every day, and when they did, their rot was all the more poisonous for it.
I could very well be corresponding with a murderer.
Still…the only way to know for certain was by gathering information. And between staff, maidens, judges, and the Alaires themselves, there were at least a hundred souls within the Weaver King’s estate. Of all the questions to answer, surely this was the safest.
Yes, I wrote, the starkness of the ink on the page bolder than I felt. I am here.
As am I, came the response. My stomach dropped—with relief or fear, I didn’t have time to assess before a second scroll followed it. Why are you asking after Ophelia?
I wish to discover how she died. The words felt prophetic as I wrote them out, as if by inscribing them, I was sealing their truth.
Once the flame had consumed them, I stood back and waited, my restlessness growing with each minute that came and went answerless.
Perhaps I’d been too brazen with my last reply—revealed too much too quickly and frightened my correspondent off. Perhaps—
The fire twitched, coughing out a scroll.
Ophelia Lear killed herself with her questions. You should be wary of which ones you ask.
I could feel the thud of my heart in my ears. Reaching for my pen, I went to write back—but as if with an invisible breath, the candle flame guttered out, leaving my bedroom dark.